


Reaping What You Sew

by TheTriggeredHappy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: 5-1 Meme, Ambiguous team, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, dad!spy, the angst is resolved like instantly because this is a happy fic goddamnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTriggeredHappy/pseuds/TheTriggeredHappy
Summary: Or, “Five Times Spy Was Surprisingly Nice To The Team, And One Time The Team Surprised Him Back”





	1. Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[this idea was brought up in the discord and i loved it so i asked to write it. only took me like two months to get around to....... blame Running Blind]]

 

 

 

 

Birthdays were a complex affair within the base.

 

Some, like Pyro and Soldier, were ecstatic about them, more than happy to celebrate the passage of time, and looked forward to them far in advance.

 

Some, like Engineer or Heavy, didn’t have a particular fondness for them—a birthday is just a date on a calendar, after all. Nothing magical happened once the clock struck midnight. It wasn’t that birthdays weren’t noted, just not made a big fuss of.

 

And some, like Sniper, loathed them.

 

The Australian man didn’t have much to look forward to on birthdays. A call from his parents that had a 50/50 chance of ending in a shouting match? Possible. A short crisis over how much of his life had already passed and how little he’d actually accomplished? Extremely probable. Teasing and prodding from his teammates about how old he was getting? He wouldn’t be surprised.

 

The distinct possibility that nobody would even make note of the event in the first place, and instead they would forget completely, especially given the fact that he intentionally hadn’t told anyone when his birthday was in an attempt to keep himself out of the spotlight?

 

He pushed the thought out of his mind before he could sour his mood further.

 

So, no, Sniper didn’t celebrate birthdays. Not really. The only difference he foresaw between Friday evening of the next week and every other Friday of the year was that he planned on getting even more drunk than usual, off away from the rest of the team where nobody could bother him. It was quickly becoming a tradition.

 

He stood abruptly from the breakfast table, earning a fewstartled looks from his teammates, leaving the dining area before anyone could stop him. He nearly bowled Scout over as they crossed paths in the doorway.

 

“Woah, the hell’s his problem?” Scout asked the few other mercs who got up that early in the morning—namely Engie, Heavy, Spy, and Soldier. The general room gave a shrug, Engie and Soldier returning to their breakfast, Heavy to his book.

 

Scout walked to the fridge and opened the door, peering inside. Spy, who was leaned against the counter, spoke.

 

“The Bushman is bitter because of what day it is next week,” Spy said.

 

“What, Arbor Day?” Scout asked sarcastically when Spy didn’t elaborate. “What’s happening, c’mon, just spell it out for me.”

 

“If I spelled it out, you would still not understand, you’re terrible at reading,” Spy snarked.

 

Scout flipped him off from his place leaned into the fridge.

 

“It is his birthday next Friday,” Spy finally said. “And like many, he is not fond of celebrating the slow walk towards death.”

 

“Wait, really?” Scout asked, looking over at Spy, shutting the fridge with the hand not holding a can of some highly-caffeinated energy drink. “Why not?”

 

“Not my problem,” Spy said, shrugging and glancing away.

 

“Well, that’s bullshit! Birthdays are the freakin’ best!” Scout popped the tab on the can, taking a hearty drink from it, looking off towards the doorway. “Y’know what, I’m gonna make sure this birthday is awesome for him! It’s gonna be great, you’ll see. A whole big thing.”

 

“You want to make a large, noisy party for a reclusive introvert?” Spy deadpanned.

 

Scout considered it. “...Okay, maybe not a _whole_ big thing, but. It’ll be great! I’m gonna go talk to Hardhat, we’ve got like, one week to make the coolest birthday ever.”

 

Scout jogged over to the goggled man, beginning to talk animatedly with wide gestures, and Spy took his leave, job done.

 

* * *

 

Sniper wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he was getting irritated by it.

 

Suddenly it seemed like everyone made it their business to be in his space, the entire day. If they weren’t stopping him to chat between matches, they were bothering him on the way back, and if they weren’t bothering him on the way back, they were pestering him at dinner. And every time he walked into a room, it felt like everyone was suddenly staring at him, cutting off conversation and making him the new center of attention. Were they trying to organize an assassination on him? Because if so, they weren’t being very subtle.

 

All week, this went on. In a surprising turn of events, the phone call with his parents actually didn’t end in anger, and nobody poked fun at him for getting older. In fact, a few of them even wished him a happy birthday, and they were really genuine about it too. He didn’t know how they found out when it was; it wasn’t even marked on his own calendar.

 

It all made sense when he walked into the rec area for dinner on Friday.

 

The first things he processed were the balloons, colorful and bright under the harsh overheads the entire base was unfortunately outfitted with. The second thing was the pile of wrapped boxes on the table. The third thing was the presence of what looked like the entire team at the table, all of whom were looking at him with wide eyes as he walked in.

 

“Here he is!” Scout exclaimed, face breaking into a grin, and a cheer broke out around the room. Sniper was frozen in place, and he glanced around, looking for answers. “Hey, happy birthday, man!”

 

“You...” Sniper started, but he didn’t know what words to follow with. He felt several emotions all at once.

 

“Thank goodness,” Engie called from the kitchen area, and Sniper looked over and saw him carrying a large cake, topped with at least two dozen already-lit candles. “The wax was startin’ to melt, and nobody likes waxy cake.”

 

“Wait, f’me?” Sniper finally managed, glancing around, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Ja, unless you know of another Sniper whose birthday is today?” Medic replied, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Sit down, Herr Sniper, before our Pyro explodes.”

 

The Pyro in question was bouncing excitedly, clearly thrilled beyond speech, looking for all the world like Christmas had come early. Sniperhesitantly sat down at the table with the others, still a little dazed. Engie put down the cake before him.

 

“Gotta make a wish,” Demo chimed from a ways down the table. “S’good luck.”

 

Sniper thought about it for a moment, then inhaled, then blew out the candles. He managed to get all of them in one go. Some more cheers rose around the table.

 

“How—how’d you do all this?” he asked, looking around at them.

 

“Well, Hardhat an’ Mumbles made the cake—” Scout started, leaning to look at the two.

 

“The Firebug lit the candles,” Engie clarified from one side of Sniper when he looked confused. Pyro nodded happily.

 

“—Soldier an’ Cyclops were in charge of the balloons an’ stuff—“

 

“These balloons are up to military standard,” Soldier said solemnly. They _were_ pretty good balloons.

 

“—An’ the Doc an’ Heavy were in charge of wrappin’ the presents,” Scout finished, looking over at Medic and Heavy.

 

“And Leetle Scout made plans,” Heavy rumbled.

 

“They were the best plans,” Scout said with a lopsided grin.

 

“And the Doctor bought the liquor,” Engie added.

 

“It is no Oktoberfest, but it will do,” Medic said with a melancholic sigh.

 

Sniper was at a loss for words, as he often found himself. A beat passed before Pyro was saying something, and Engie nodded, pulling the cake over to start cutting it into slices and dealing it out.

 

“Okay, so we all got you somethin’,” Scout bubbled after the cake was all passed out. “Order don’t matter that much, an’ I don’t _think_ any of it is like, fragile.”

 

Sniper looked at the pile of gifts, and carefully picked up one of the smaller ones from the top, looking it over briefly before he pulled off the wrapping.

 

The first gift was from Demo, a pendant that allegedly would bring good luck. Then Soldier’s, a pair of brass knuckles. Heavy gifted him a long scarf, allegedly something his mother had made. By some turn of luck, it was in Sniper’s favorite color. Demo joked that the pendant, hung around Sniper’s neck, was already working.

 

Next came Scout’s gift—some book he’d 'read' in school, “Gulliver’s Travels”. He insisted that it was a good one, and that he thought Sniper might like it. Spy had gifted him a razor, one of the nice kinds, always the pragmatist. Medic gifted him another pair of sunglasses, and Sniper didn’t need to try them on to know that Medic had gotten them in his prescription. He waved off Sniper’s thanks, but he was smiling.

 

Pyro’s gift—“Apparently this one has been done for like a month,” Scout noted, looking at Pyro with furrowed eyebrows—was a little stuffed platypus, clearly stitched by hand. Engie got him a large coffee mug, on which was emblazoned his class logo in the team’s color. After every gift Sniper managed to stutter a thanks, a bit awkwardly, but nobody seemed to notice the awkwardness. They just looked... happy for him. All eight gifts were unwrapped with the team smiling with him, laughing at his surprised reactions.

 

But there was one more gift on the table after he’d been through the team. Flat and rectangular.

 

“Now, if you don’t wanna keep this in your place, we’d be fine hangin’ it in the base somewhere,” Engie started when Sniper picked the box up. “But that’s up to you.”

 

Sniper didn’t know what he meant until he slid the item from the packaging, but suddenly his throat was tightening up as he looked down at it.

 

A picture—a drawing, a recreation of sorts—of a photo that was taken a long time ago, when the team had first arrived to start working together. Sniper, being one of the tallest, had been standing towards the center of the shot despite his protests. The drawing was wonderful, colorful and bright and clearly given a good amount of work.

 

“It’s... brilliant,” he managed, glancing around the team, looking at Soldier, at Medic.

 

“Do not look at me,” Medic said, “Scout drew the picture.”

 

“Pyro colored it,” Scout protested sheepishly, face a bit red. “An’ it was Heavy who made the frame.”

 

“I love it,” Sniper said, and most of the team was caught off guard by how genuine he sounded, by how much emotion was held in the words. “Thank you. For all of this, for... thank you.”

 

Pyro chirped something cheerful. “Firebug’s right, birthdays only come once a year,” Engie agreed with a shrug. “Why not celebrate?”

 

Sniper nodded, and he swallowed hard, trying his best to push down the sudden surge of emotions welling in his chest. A few beats passed, of calm, of reprieve.

 

“Well, gifts are done,” Demo observed. “How about we break out the alcohol an’ see if we can’t get hangovers tomorrow mornin’?”

 

A cheer from around the table, Heavy and Medic getting up to walk towards the kitchen, the rest of the team breaking from the table to go sit in the rec room, dropping onto couches, some beginning to bicker over what card game they should all play.

 

Sniper stopped Scout with a hand on his shoulder. “A word, mate?” he asked. Scout nodded, stepping aside with Sniper.

 

“What’s up?” he asked brightly.

 

“Why’d you do all this?” he asked, because he had to know.

 

“Well, birthdays are like, the best part of the year,” Scout answered, hands in his pockets. “I wanted to make sure it was a good one, y’know? It was wicked hard to keep it all secret, though, lemme tell ya.”

 

“How’d you even find out?” Sniper asked, the thing that had been nagging him the entire time.

 

“Oh. Spy told me,” Scout chirped, ticking his head over towards the Frenchman, who was talking to Engie at the table. “Said you don’t like birthdays, an’ didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it. An’ he didn’t say nothin’, but I’m pretty sure he’s been running interference to keep things a secret, an’ he kept popping up to give advice on gifts an’ stuff. It was weird.”

 

Sniper looked towards the Frenchman, who was now helping the Engineer to clear away the wrapping paper, stacking the boxes of gifts in crisp piles. “Now why would he do that?” Sniper asked quietly, half to himself.

 

“Laddie, tell this man that poker is boring and that BS is where it’s at!” Demo called from across the room.

 

“Cadet, tell this man that BS is a middle schooler’s sleepover game and that poker is the game of men!” Soldier called.

 

“What, ain’t either of you ever heard of crazy eights?” Scout replied, hands on his hips.

 

“Just let Sniper break the tie, idiots!” Spy called dryly, taking the bottle offered by Medic as he and Heavy returned, carrying crates of alcohol.

 

Eyes turned to Sniper, who tried very hard not to choke in the spotlight.

 

“Er... does everyone here know how to play Uno?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[what, does spy have emotions or something? fuckin' loser]]


	2. Homesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[heavy and medic's turns]]

 

 

Medic was a proud man.

 

Anyone would say it. He committed a good portion of his time and energy to keeping his reputation and image—he wore a clean collared shirt, a tie, a sweater (or sweater vest), clean socks, dress pants, and shined boots under a crisp white coat into bloody, dirty, sweaty battle _every single da_ y. It was more than a commitment, it was a _personality trait_. He was professional. He was respectfully distant. He held himself to a standard, and would never fall below that standard. Falling below standard is something that results in people dying when you’re a battlefield medic. He could not afford to be anything less than borderline perfect.

 

He could not afford to get homesick.

 

It was, quite frankly, ridiculous of him to be homesick, anyways. He wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy being sent off to boarding school for the first time—he hadn’t even _seen_  Germany in over a decade! He hadn’t missed it that much when he had been forced to leave the first time, nor had he missed it since then. So why, pray tell, was it suddenly a whole ordeal just to think about home?

 

Perhaps it was the season. Many of the mercenaries were going home to visit family, something Medic wasn’t fortunate (unfortunate?) enough to have. At the very least, they were going to their respective regions during their time off. But Medic had nothing left in Germany for him, nor would he be welcome even if he tried to go there. The authorities would undoubtedly remember him if he tried to return. It would be stupid to even try.

 

Besides, he had paperwork to do. He needed to focus on his job. That’s what he always did when he started getting emotional over nothing. It worked.

 

Why wasn’t it working this time?

 

Looking around the table during dinner, he knew that the conversation topics certainly weren’t helping. Demo had mentioned that his flight would be leaving relatively early in the morning the next week when break started, and Engie had countered him, saying that at least he wasn’t driving all the way home. The conversation had moved on to plans for their break, which unsurprisingly was a topic of much excitement around the table.

 

Even Heavy had been dragged into it, and with a smile, he admitted that his sisters were greatly looking forward to seeing him again after so long, and that his mother always took care to make a big meal every time he returned home. He was talking about the dinner in question in detail, and Medic stared down at his plate, trying not to feel resentment.

 

Spy, at his other side, glanced over when he set his glass down a bit too loudly, the only one to notice. “And what are your plans?” he asked the German, tone relatively light.

 

“I have none,” Medic replied, doing his best to keep bitterness from his tone and failing. “I’m staying here. I am very behind on papers.”

 

“Would that be the Administrator’s choice, or yours?” Spy asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

 _”It doesn’t matter, get out of my business, fuck off,”_  Medic replied in German, glaring at nothing in particular.

 

Spy rolled his eyes. _”I am trying to make polite conversation,”_  he said, switching to German without missing a beat.

 

 _”And I am trying to eat my dinner in peace,”_  Medic shot back, stabbing at a piece of meat as if it had personally offended him.

 

Spy dropped the topic at that, and sighed when a few minutes later, Medic abruptly stood to leave the table, murmuring that he had work to do before bed.

 

Heavy looked concerned, and moved as if to follow him, but Spy put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

 

“He is angry, don’t bother,” Spy said.

 

“That is why I go to check on him,” Heavy replied, a little confused.

 

“He is _very_  angry,” Spy said, words thick with meaning. Heavy hesitantly returned to sitting normally, albeit with occasional worried glances towards the door.

 

After a while, Heavy looked over at Spy again. “What was said to make Doktor angry?” he asked suspiciously.

 

Spy sighed, sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms. “He is not going home for break,” he said.

 

“Doktor never does,” Heavy said with a nod. “I know this.”

 

“He wishes to.”

 

“I know this,” Heavy said again, beginning to look annoyed.

 

“Is there nothing you can do?” Spy asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

Heavy sighed, leaning back in his chair. “He says he cannot go to Germany,” Heavy rumbled. “Also Europe. Authorities know him, is too dangerous.”

 

“He is a wanted man?” Spy clarified. Heavy nodded. “I see. Does he not have any other papers, a false identity?”

 

“No.” Heavy looked down at his plate. “Heavy asked once if Doktor would like to visit with family in Russia. Said same thing—Russia and Europe have authorities that speak to each other. It is true. It is not safe for Doktor to travel over sea.”

 

Spy considered Heavy’s words for a few seconds, looking around the table carefully. He finally looked back.

 

“What if that could change?” he asked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Medic awoke, much like he usually did, facedown in his work.

 

It was a poorly-kept secret that Medic didn’t sleep much. He constantly woke himself up anyways when he tried, so instead he just worked through the night. Unfortunately, sometimes exhaustion did win out, and he wound up passing out midway through a task.

 

Luckily, he wasn’t working with some kind of organ when he passed out. He was sifting through the required paperwork to let some of the mercenaries travel internationally. While the team certainly had no problem with breaking the law, and was literally paid to do so on a regular basis, it was sometimes just much easier for everyone to do things legally.

 

That is to say, it was easier for the rest of the team and for the Administrator and Miss Pauling, but infinitely more inconvinient for Medic—as many things were.

 

Either way, at least the ink hadn’t imprinted onto his face. That would be irritating.

 

He looked at his watch, and gave a groan, lying his face back down again. He’d only managed to sleep for about two hours. It was roughly five in the morning, a long time before he needed to be awake. He wouldn’t be able to get to sleep again before then. He considered trying to just knock himself out anyways. That worked about 30% of the time, and the fatality rate was only a bit above 5%.

 

The sound of the door to the medbay opening made him go wide awake.

 

A bolt of paranoia, an instinct carried over from battle, had him turning so that his back was to a wall, eyes finding the intruder. The fear melted away when he saw that it was a teammate—not just any teammate, it was Heavy.

 

“Ah. Hello, Heavy,” Medic said, giving him a weary smile.

 

“Did not wake Doktor?” Heavy asked, frowning as he approched.

 

“Nein, I was just moping,” Medic sighed, looking back down at his papers. “But I did sleep a bit earlier.”

 

“Good. Doktor needs sleep,” Heavy said seriously, moving over and looking down at the papers Medic had been in the middle of. “What is this? More orders for supplies?”

 

“Travel paperwork,” Medic replied, turning his pen over between his fingers as he looked down at them. “I’m nearly finished with inner-country travel work. Only Engineer is driving rather than flying. Luckily, our Pyro has elected to stay with Engineer, even if they are flying. One less international passenger, at least.”

 

“Is much work for one man,” Heavy murmured, frowning at the stacks.

 

“Indeed,” Medic said. “I’m afraid I will not be very entertaining in conversation if you wish to stick around. Even if I could work in German, speaking and writing at the same time is... difficult.”

 

“Is understandable,” Heavy said graciously, leaning on the operating table just a bit away.

 

“If only I was ever given a reasonable amount of forewarning for these,” Medic sighed, irritation seeping into his tone despite himself.

 

“Heavy could help,” the bear of a man offered lightly.

 

Medic looked up at him, blinking. “Really?” he asked, a bit hopeful, a bit suspicious.

 

Heavy shrugged. “If it would help Doktor.”

 

Medic hesitated. He looked at Heavy, then the stack of papers, then the calendar. He understood that he simply wouldn’t have time to get through everything if something came up, and he hated when things came down to the wire.

 

“...Okay,” Medic said, and handed him a packet. “You can start on your own papers, for now. You are flying first to New York, where you will stay overnight, then to Warsaw, then to Siberia, where you will take a train overnight and arrive in the morning. The same route will be taken to return, but you will stay overnight in New York instead. Each trip requires different paperwork, and some signatures from me. Just do what you think you can, ja?”

 

“Da,” Heavy nodded, taking the papers and sitting down in one of the chairs, getting right to work.

 

Half an hour later, when Medic passed out on his papers again, Heavy left the medbay without a sound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Doktor, there is problem.”

 

It was travel day, and Medic’s nerves were absolutely fried. Soldier and Scout had set out in the same vehicle for the airport, which had required a call to Miss Pauling so she would keep an eye on them, and Demo had woken up a bit late and nearly missed his flight altogether. Engineer had set out, and Pyro would be traveling alone, and Medic had to convince Spy to chauffeur the firebug so they could get through certain parts of security. Sniper had neglected to check out properly, and there had been about half an hour of panic where he was entirely off radar before Medic managed to confirm that he had safely made it to the airport. And now, Heavy, who with Spy would be the last to leave the base, was coming up to him and saying there was a problem.

 

God _damn_ it.

 

“Yes?” he asked, just a little exasperated. “What is the problem?”

 

“Plane will be delayed, maybe for whole night,” he said. “Many storms in country today, some planes running late. Phone call from Miss Pauling and she said this.”

 

Medic scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Okay... okay. Your paperwork should still be fine, you will just... need to book a hotel, I suppose. The airport will take care of delayed flights.”

 

“Will Doktor be staying behind at base?” Heavy asked, frowning lightly. “Maybe Doktor comes along with Heavy to city for overnight, if possible. Base is stuffy, will get boring.”

 

Medic wanted so badly to say yes. He wanted to get out of the base, he didn’t want to have to be alone with himself for so long, he wanted to hold on to his teammates for just a little longer, Heavy most of all.

 

So he said, “Okay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It turned out that going with Heavy was a really good idea. Just booking the hotel was a bit of an ordeal, and only Medic’s forced diplomacy managed to get them a room on such short notice. He and Heavy went out into the city, went drinking, exploring. It was extremely refreshing. Then they’d turned in, and gone to the airport early in the morning.

 

He walked Heavy to security, and intended to leave then, albeit reluctantly, but Heavy had placed a weighty hand on his shoulder when they got to the line, and handed the security person his tickets. The woman behind the small podium had glanced at Heavy, then, surprisingly, at Medic, and waved them both past.

 

Medic was a smart enough man not to say anything until they were through. “Heavy, what is going on?” he asked under his breath, keeping his voice low.

 

Heavy had the decency to look sheepish. “Thought that Doktor could travel with to New York,” he said softly, giving a small smile. “Get out of office. Doktor deserves break, too.”

 

Admittedly, it was a very sweet thought. And a sweet gesture. And Medic wanted to, he—

 

Suddenly an announcement came over the speakers, and Heavy’s eyes widened minutely, quickly looking at the healer. “What is flight number?”

 

“Um—“ Medic quickly took the tickets, consulting them. “—It’s I-N, 9-3-2, why?”

 

“Is leaving _now_ ,” Heavy said, slightly panicked.

 

There were two beats of silence, then they were running.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They barely— _barely_ —made it onto the plane. The ticket attendant looked pretty amused by them, flushed and panting as they handed their tickets over. Medic couldn’t even hear what she was saying, really, just nodding and agreeing with her before he passed onto the plane.

 

He was sat down next to Heavy already when he realized that he hadn’t even technically agreed to go yet. Too late, he supposed. Heavy seemed pleased with himself, at least.

 

A thought occurred to him. “How did you get me a ticket?” he asked, looking over at Heavy.

 

The large man shifted slightly, glancing away for a moment. “Got assistance. Have maybe planned this. Doktor needs a break,” he said finally.

 

Medic was a little too tired to argue with him, and just shrugged, leaning back in his seat and looking upward. “When does the plane land? Will there be time to eat dinner before you fly out again?”

 

Heavy shifted again, and was looking increasingly sheepish. “Will stop briefly to refuel, maybe makes time longer.”

 

Medic nodded, then paused. He finally reached into his bag, pulling forth a book. “Well, you’re very fortunate I brought a way to occupy myself,” he said pointedly, looking at Heavy over his glasses.

 

Heavy nodded, and they were quiet, the plane finally beginning to taxi down the runway, taking off without problem into the early morning sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Medic woke to the feeling of the plane landing, unaware of when exactly he’d fallen asleep.

 

“Is it time to leave?” he asked groggily as they touched down, shaken awake.

 

“Some passengers, yes, but not us,” Heavy replied easily. “Doktor may go back to sleep.”

 

Medic considered arguing with that, but the gentle hum of the plane and the closeness of the space around him and the soft warmth of the space were all extremely comfortable, and he just nodded, leaning his head on the window again, and fortunately for Heavy, he didn’t hear the flight attendant announcing that anyone who wasn’t a passenger on the connecting flight to Warsaw should disembark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Medic was out cold for almost the whole flight. Heavy felt a stab of sympathy for him, and knew that Medic had been losing a lot of sleep recently. He almost wanted to scold the doctor for his habits, but knew that it wouldn’t help—it had never helped before. Instead he just let the man sleep while he still could.

 

But he was forced to interrupt possibly the first real amount of time the doctor had gotten of sleep in at least two years once they touched down again.

 

“Doktor,” Heavy said gently, shaking the man’s shoulder as the other passengers around them began to stand up and prepare to disembark. “Doktor, we are here.”

 

Medic slowly, slowly woke up, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, looking outside with a furrowed brow. “It is... morning?” he asked hesitantly. “How long was I asleep?”

 

“Ten hours,” Heavy said, which was technically true—he’d woken up very briefly when they touched down in New York. “Traveling east fast makes time different.”

 

Medic looked befuddled by that, but just rubbed his face briskly with both hands. “I am still nearly asleep,” he admitted with a little laugh.

 

“Can wake up more later,” Heavy said with his own laugh, standing and starting to retrieve their carry-on once some of the other passengers had cleared the way for his bulk.

 

They left the plane and Heavy wordlessly moved them into the line for customs. Medic was still half-asleep, and didn’t seem to really process their surroundings much, lost in his own thoughts for a little bit. Heavy lost himself in his thoughts in a very different way, hoping that he could pass off the sweat collecting on his brow as the product of the heaters near the door that tried so desperately to keep the cold at bay.

 

Once they got to the front of the line, Heavy handed over their papers, tension coiling through his abdomen like some monsterous snake, ready to constrict and suffocate him.

 

“Mikhal?” the attendant asked, looking over at Medic with narrowed eyes.

 

“No, that is me,” Heavy cut in. “He is Dr. Henry Beilschmidt.”

 

Medic looked at him with a note of confusion, and the attendant clearly saw this, and narrowed his eyes. Heavy felt the snake poising to strike. This was it. They were going to be arrested. All that planning and sneaking and lying to his Doktor for nothing.

 

 _“I don’t understand,”_ Medic mumbled slowly in German.

 

Suddenly the attendant’s expression went sympathetic. “ _Ah! Do not worry, I speak German,”_ he said, albeit a bit haltingly. _“He is Mikhal, and you are the doctor?”_

 

Medic nodded.

 

 _“That is correct?”_ the attendant asked Heavy next, and he just nodded, only half understanding. _“Then it seems we are in order. Welcome to Warsaw, sirs!”_

 

And their papers were stamped and they were ushered through.

 

Medic was silent as they continued through the airport. Overhead, announcements were made in Polish, then in English, then German, then finally in Spanish. Various signs told them how to navigate the Warsaw International Airport. Medic was silent. Heavy was sweating again.

 

They picked up Heavy’s suitcase and walked outside into the cold air, and Medic socked Heavy on the arm, hard.

 

“You lied to me!” Medic hissed, looking caught somewhere between furious and amazed and horrified and absolutely euphoric. “How did you get these papers? How did you do all of this without me noticing?!”

 

“Spy helped,” Heavy said weakly, hands up in surrender. “Also have train tickets leaving in afternoon, to take us to Germany, if Doktor wants to go. Plan was to go find hotel there, perhaps travel more. Sightsee.”

 

“What about your family?!” Medic asked furiously, throwing his arms out. “They were expecting you! You said your mother is always so excited to see you again!”

 

“Have seen family one year ago, and can write letters, make calls,” Heavy replied gently. “Doktor has not been home for long time. It is his turn, da?”

 

Medic’s mouth was set in a straight line as he stared for one, two, three seconds, then he was tackling Heavy in an embrace. Heavy, confused but not one to reject the rare affection Medic would occasionally be willing to dole out, hesitantly returned it.

 

“Thank you, Misha,” Medic finally said, voice hushed, just a bit weak. “Thank you, for all of this.”

 

“Heavy only lied to Doktor,” he admitted, holding him as tightly as was safe. “It was Spy who helps forge papers.”

 

“I will thank him when we return,” Medic promised, moving away again, a more genuine, livelier smile on his face than Heavy had seen in a long, long time. “But for now, let us enjoy a holiday in my home country!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Once they finally reached a hotel somewhere just outside of Munich, Medic left very briefly to go and get some genuine German alcohol. Heavy waited a few minutes after he left before retrieving a phone number from a piece of paper within his bag, dialing from the hotel phone.

 

After two rings, it was picked up.

 

“Yes?” a familiar voice asked.

 

“Is Mikhal,” Heavy said shortly.

 

“Ah, so he did not kill you,” Spy said dryly from the other end of the line. “I assume you did not miss your train?”

 

“No. We are in Munich now, I call from hotel,” Heavy said.

 

“Good. Any problems with the papers?”

 

“No. Worked fine,” Heavy said. “Doktor said he would thank you when we return.”

 

“It was easy, I’ve forged many documents before,” Spy said, and even through the crackle of distance Heavy could practically see him waving his hand dismissively. “And it is the holiday rush, they are not checking too thuroughly regardless.”

 

“You are in France for holiday, da?” Heavy asked. “Could come visit for day, maybe. Trains are very fast here.”

 

“Non, but thank you for the offer,” Spy said graciously. “I would prefer to spend my limited vacation time alone, thank you.”

 

“That is fair,” Heavy shrugged. “Have good holiday, Spy. We see you when we return.”

 

“...Yes. Merry Smissmas, Mikhal,” Spy replied, and the phone went dead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[god, spy, keep this up and they'll start thinking you ~care~ or something]]


	3. Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[i use they/them pronouns for pyro because they’re the nb icon we all need]]

 

 

Pyro was... complicated.

 

They were an adult, definitely, because the Administrator has rules about who was hired—never anyone under the age of 22. It was just easier. But none of the team (save for, perhaps, Medic) knew how old they were, or what they looked like, or even if they were a guy. And at that point, after a few years, they were all a little scared to ask.

 

The nature of Pyro as an individual was shrouded in mystery, even moreso than Spy, and the mercs all had enough respect to keep it that way until Pyro decided to open up to them, if that happened at all.

 

But sometimes, it came with... inconveniences.

 

It was Engie who first noticed it—Pyro’s sudden drop in performance, missing Spychecks and losing enemies more quickly, not noticing adversaries at all sometimes until it was too late.

 

“Buddy, are you doin’ alright?” Engie asked after a day or two of it as Pyro passed by leaving Respawn, having looked up from the teleporter he was working on. “You’re droppin’ on the scoreboard real quick-like.”

 

Pyro mumbled something in return, continuing past without stopping to chat.

 

Demo was the next one to pick up on something being wrong, catching sight of Pyro in the common area at one point, tugging and adjusting their mask fretfully, movements slightly irritable.

 

“Y’alright there, Firebug?” Demo asked, and Pyro visibly jumped, then just mumbled out something, forcing their hands down to their sides miserably and getting up to leave the rec room altogether.

 

Sniper noticed that suddenly he was being backstabbed a lot more, and Engie noticed his builds staying up for shorter amounts of time.

 

“Are you mad at us or somethin’?” Scout asked one day, abruptly, somehow not gathering the attention of all of the others. Pyro shook their head no.

 

“Are you ill? I can treat most ailments,” Medic said later. Pyro shook their head no.

 

It was Spy who guessed it, eventually.

 

He simply knocked on the door to Pyro’s room one day before everyone was supposed to turn in. A few moments passed where he heard movement within, and then Pyro unlocked and opened their door.

 

“Does the problem have something to do with your face?” Spy asked.

 

After a few tense moments, Pyro nodded, sullen and slump-shouldered.

 

“What, precisely, is the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”

 

Pyro tiredly pantomimed a pair of scissors up near their head. Spy tilted his own curiously, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to figure out what they meant.

 

“...Haircut. Your hair is getting too long?” Spy asked, and Pyro nodded, no less downcast. “And I’m presuming there is nobody in the base who you trust to cut it?”

 

A series of mumbles, a few quizzical gestures.

 

“...Nobody who knows _how_  to cut hair,” Spy self-corrected, and Pyro nodded again.

 

There were a few beats of silence.

 

“What if I told you that _I_  know how to cut hair?” Spy asked finally.

 

Pyro tilted their head.

 

“I have needed to cut my own for years now, cutting yours should be no problem,” Spy reasoned. “And, to be blunt, you do not have very many alternatives.”

 

There were a few moments of silence that followed. Moments of Pyro just looking at him, moments of Pyro looking off to one side in thought, and a moment where they raised one hand to grip at the point where their mask and suit connected. All quiet. Spy waited patiently for those moments, knowing that this was a bit of a big deal for the firebug.

 

And finally, they nodded, and gestured Spy inside.

 

He didn’t cast looks around the room despite the eye-catching clutter of knickknacks that covered most surfaces. He simply drew out the Mann Co. general issue chair from its matching desk-turned-vanity mirror, and gestured for Pyro to sit, sifting through the drawer in search of scissors.

 

Pyro sat and fidgeted with... well, everything. Their gloves, the edge of their mask, the seam of their sleeve. Constant, nervous motion.

 

“Do you have a mirror?” Spy asked, the very picture of nonchalance, and somehow that settled Pyro just a little. They nodded, opening another drawer and finding a handheld mirror within, handing it over to Spy, who had located scissors. “Merci. Now, what precisely am I working with?”

 

Pyro hesitated, fidgeted, hesitated. And finally, in one sudden, violent motion, they pulled their mask off of their head and into their lap.

 

Spy took care not to stare or study their face, the task made slightly easier by the volume of curly hair that had sprung forth from beneath the mask. It appeared that Pyro had attempted to tie it back at some point, but the band had broken and gotten tangled within the dark brown, fluffy mass of hair. It hung in stacks in all directions—most notably, directly in their face and eyes, falling back into place in the same moment it was pushed lightly aside nervously.

 

“Ah, no surprise that your performance is suffering,” Spy said calmly. “How you see, I have no idea.”

 

Pyro was very carefully not making eye contact.

 

“Do you have a magazine, mon ami?”

 

Pyro glanced up with confusion.

 

“So I can have a point of reference on what look you are going for. I can begin to trim it down now, but I would prefer you have a haircut you do not hate by the end of this.”

 

Pyro paused for a few moments, then nodded, leaning to open another drawer, this one full of a massive stack of magazines.

 

Spy, as they began to flip through, retrieved a towel and blanket from around the room, the towel draping over Pyro’s shoulders and the blanket being placed on the ground, presumably to make cleaning up a bit easier.

 

Then he moved to simply fiddle with Pyro’s hair, seeing how flat it would lie with minimal brushing, just how much volume it would hold. This had two purposes—to know what his options were, and more importantly, to calm Pyro, who even now seemed like they would fizz over at any moment with the condensation of nervousness they held.

 

Finally, Pyro shifted, holding up a magazine for Spy to see. The page was worn, the image fading, but still clear enough. Also clear, uninhibited by a thick mask, was Pyro’s near-whisper of “This one,” in a voice Spy had never heard before.

 

He took the page and looked it over for a few seconds. Nodded.

 

“It will keep your hair from your eyes, at least,” Spy said, looking back at them, and they looked away at the moment he did. “Well. Let us get to work, oui?”

 

Shifting of the towel, shifting of the blanket, Pyro picking at one of the many seams of their suit. Putting the magazine on the desk, and the handheld mirror, and Pyro’s mask, and Spy’s—

 

Pyro blinked, certain that they were seeing wrong.

 

They weren’t. That was Spy’s balaclava on the desk, and his gloves.

 

They looked up and saw that Spy was fiddling with their hair again, shifting the pair of scissors between his hands.

 

“It is only fair,” he finally said in reply to the unuttered question, voice calm enough that Pyro knew he was faking it. “I know your face, you know mine. And I do not wish to get hair on my mask—it tends to stick to the fabric.”

 

Pyro nodded, and something a lot like relief bloomed through their chest, and finally, finally, they relaxed. And Spy began to cut their hair.

 

“Thank you,” they murmured halfway through.

 

Spy didn’t reply verbally, just turning up his nose, and Pyro giggled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next battle, Pyro was in top form. Nothing escaped their sightline alive, not the enemy Medic, not their Scout, not their Soldier or Demo. The enemy Spy scored a record low number of kills, and Engie had a wail of a time just sitting back and letting his sentries work uninterrupted.

 

“What’s gotten into him? She hasn’t performed this good in—hell, I dunno how long!” Scout commented with a grin as he stood leaned on the dispenser, watching Pyro dart past with muffled cheers.

 

“I dunno, but I think it might be the Frenchman’s fault,” Engie commented, snagging some metal from beneath where Scout leaned.

 

“Huh? Why’s that?” Scout asked, clearly surprised.

 

“You’d take care to use your eyes more an’ your mouth less, boy,” Engie replied, nodding towards where Pyro had gone. Scout craned his neck to see around the corner.

 

A ways away, he saw their Spy running into view, agitation clear on his face and accentuated by the flames licking up his suit. At one of his alarmed yells, Pyro suddenly spun, darting over to him and putting him out with a single, effective blast of compressed air.

 

Spy gave some brief thanks, relieved, and Pyro babbled on for a few seconds animatedly, all wide gestures and bouncing heels. Spy waved them off, and they scurried away, but there was no denying the begrudgingly fond smile that accompanied him rolling his eyes.

 

“Huh. What’s that about?” Scout asked, curiosity rolling to the surface within an instant—that is to say, just as fast as usual for him.

 

“Dunno if that’s my business,” Engie replied, and he knocked the side of the dispenser once and trailed off to his sentry again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[theyre mask friends. god spy why are you such a dramatic nerd]]


	4. Paternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[scout's turn. had to happen eventually]]

 

 

Scout wasn’t normally what others would call “quiet”.

 

Arrogant? Probably. Overly-optimistic? Maybe. Brash? For sure. But not quiet—never quiet. He practically had a phobia for silence, as far as the others could tell. He was always itching for there to be noise, and if there wasn’t any ambience, he’d make the noise himself.

 

Then, suddenly, all at once, he was very, unsettlingly quiet.

 

The other mercs noticed the silence almost instantly, but it took some of them a bit longer to pin down exactly what was wrong. There was a misconception that everyone was always conversing—but really, Scout was always running background noise, and the others would layer on top of that. And without him as a starting point, suddenly nobody wanted to be the first to talk. Suddenly nobody talked in the first place.

 

At dinner, the silence was downright _oppressive_.

 

The sound of cutlery on plates. Glasses being lifted and placed back on the table. And silence. Nobody talking, everyone with their eyes glued to their plates. They were fortunate that dinner wasn’t anything crunchy, otherwise the sound of chewing would be heard loud and clear. The tension was as palpable as it was pointless.

 

Scout just looked down at his plate and said nothing.

 

“I was—“ Engie started. Several sets of eyes turned to him at once, and he choked on the rest of his sentence. “...I. Uh. Nevermind.”

 

Disappointment, from a few of them. Scout just pushed his food around his plate.

 

“Well, this is awful,” Medic suddenly said, standing up with his empty plate. “If any of you need me, I’ll be in the medical bay.”

 

A few of the others who were also done eating decided to get up as well. Scout didn’t look up while they left.

 

By some stroke of misfortune, the last people around the table were Scout, Engie, and Spy, which meant that Engie—the second team caretaker after Medic—felt compelled to do something. Say something. Figure out what was wrong.

 

So he put his own plate away and returned to the table, leaning on the chair beside Scout.

 

Scout didn’t look up at him.

 

“Are you doin’ alright?” Engie finally asked, very quietly.

 

Scout nodded.

 

“Well, it sure don’t seem like it, boy,” Engie replied to that, eyebrows furrowing.

 

“What’s the big deal?” Scout asked, still refusing to look up, voice just a little bit rushed, a little bit pressurized. “I’m okay.”

 

Engie looked up at Spy, whose eyebrows had risen. They made brief eye contact before Engie looked back at Scout again.

 

“You’ve just been awful quiet, and I thought there might be somethin’ on your mind. This ain’t like you,” Engie said gently but firmly.

 

“I thought you guys _wanted_  me to shut up more,” Scout said to that, and it was _almost_ , so _nearly_  a joke, but he wasn’t smiling.

 

“Scoot—“

 

“I’m fine,” Scout cut in, and he’d stopped moving. “So just... get off my back, okay?”

 

“You don’t seem fine,” Engie insisted.

 

“I _am_ ,” Scout insisted in return, eyes locked on his plate. “Lay off already.”

 

“Alright, listen here, son—“ Engie started, laying one hand on Scout’s shoulder.

 

“ _Don’t_  call me that,” Scout suddenly snapped, and he was on his feet, glaring at Engie, the other man’s arm having been batted away and fists now curled at his sides. In an instant he seemed like the physical embodiment of the fight-or-flight response, like a light switch being flipped.

 

With this being the case, Engie looked him over carefully, not pushing him again. Then he blinked and pulled his goggles from his eyes, squinting at Scout’s face. “Your eyes are red,” he said slowly.

 

“Fuck _off_ ,” Scout sneered, but his voice was shaky, and all at once he was storming from the room.

 

“Scout—“ Engie called, hurrying after him out the door and into the corridor.

 

There was silence within the room for one, two, three seconds. Then Spy, who had long been forgotten, stood and moved to put their plates away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes being angry is an asset on the battlefield. For example, Heavy gained a lot from the emotion, as it allowed him that extra push of adrenaline. And Soldier benefited from anger as well, and in some cases Sniper.

 

Scout didn’t improve with anger, he declined.

 

And what was _even worse_  was that as his performance declined, Scout tended to get bitter. He was a sore loser through-and-through, and when he was angry he lost more, and the more he lost the angrier he got.

 

The team was lucky that his breaking point was stacked so high, but unlucky in that his emotions seemed to skyrocket even faster than normal given the fact that he still wasn’t talking to any of them.

 

Spy was the unfortunate soul who found him when he reached that breaking point.

 

The rest of the team bore witness to the fact that Scout just couldn’t seem to stay alive for more than ten seconds on the field, burned alive over and over, taken out by flurries of rockets or bombs. Hell, he even got sniped a few times, to his own dismay.

 

Spy came across him as he was leaving Respawn.

 

Once battle broke out, there was really no reason to be taking the side routes out of Respawn. The other team wasn’t paying particular attention, most of the time. Spy was the only one who could maybe benefit from taking the long way.

 

And the only one who had a chance of coming across Scout.

 

He cloaked the instant he saw another person, a hard-won reflex of his, and was thus given a bit of time to see what was going on. Scout was sat against the wall, knees bent and held against his chest, face buried in them. And he was _shaking_. It was visible, full-body shaking, wracking his torso despite the strength with which he was clearly clutching at his legs.

 

And, as Spy processed after he tentatively moved a little closer, he was saying something.

 

“...so _fuckin’_  useless,” Scout muttered to himself, voice dripping with venom that was entirely unlike him. “No goddamn wonder they treat you like a goddamn kid if you’re gonna act like this, stop bein’ a baby and _get out there_  already you _useless idiot_. Moron. Get up. _Fucking get up_ already. Useless.”

 

Spy recoiled, retreating back around the corner quickly. Right in the nick of time—his cloak fell.

 

He considered his options.

 

Someone needed to go say something, clearly. Scout was in the middle of... something. Maybe not a full-scale breakdown, but something. And someone needed to address it. He should get a teammate to come help, someone who Scout actually trusted in some capacity.

 

But could he afford to wait for Respawn to spit someone back out again?

 

He realized all at once that there wasn’t anyone else who could help him just then, and so he turned the corner.

 

Scout was gone, back into battle already.

 

Spy cursed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy very quickly found out why his counterpart on the other team never seemed to backstab the Scout.

 

He was impossible to catch at the right moment.

 

It seemed like every time he came across Scout, the young man was around other people. And every time he wasn’t around other people, he just up and disappeared—maybe to his room, maybe to somewhere in the base to sulk. All Spy knew was that he couldn’t figure out where Scout was whenever it seemed like a good time to talk to him about what had happened in battle.

 

And with them going on eight days of radio silence, Spy was starting to get frustrated.

 

Wasn’t it fitting that the moment he stopped actively looking for Scout, he appeared.

 

He’d walked out behind the base, intending to just do a bit of target practice before sundown (a skill he was, admittedly, lacking in), and there Scout was in the makeshift batting cage.

 

The machine was... ‘appropriated’ from one of the abandoned bases they sometimes transferred to when the team was going stir-crazy out in the desert. It was intended to shoot out tennis balls, but Engineer, after about three days of continuous pestering, had agreed to mettle with it until it could fire baseballs. And Scout was out in the batting cage now, working out some of the aggression from the battlefield. Admittedly, Spy was a little relieved—occasionally Scout would instead take out his anger by lining their cups up on the fence and aiming at those. But then again, Spy wasn’t particularly keen on approaching Scout when he was angry _and_  armed.

 

But did he have a choice? Who knew how long it would take for him to track Scout down again, or how much worse Scout would get.

 

He argued with himself for a little while on it, and finally just sighed, walking up to the netting and fence meant to protect anyone passing by from potential foul balls.

 

“Scout,” Spy said, shoulders squared.

 

His reply was a baseball that, if not for the netting, would’ve nailed him square in the chest. Spy’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Scout. Come out here, I need to have a discussion with you.”

 

Another baseball, this one aimed for right between his eyes. Spy flinched despite himself, and glared.

 

“Scout. Don’t be childish.”

 

“In case two baseballs weren’t clear, I don’t wanna talk right now,” Scout replied, every atom of his body language sour.

 

“When _will_  you want to talk?!” Spy snapped, hands balling into fists on either side of him. “You need to stop sulking _eventually_. You can’t keep doing this forever.”

 

“Oh, can’t I?” Scout snapped, turning his head now to level a sneer at Spy. He hit the next baseball without looking. It still hit the target on the far tarp. “ _Watch_  me.”

 

Spy crossed his arms. The machine was nearly empty.

 

“What happened to your hands?” Spy asked, catching a glimpse of them. Scout had peeled the tape off of his knuckles, and they looked bruised and bloody.

 

“Punched a wall,” Scout muttered. He was gripping his bat pretty tightly.

 

“It did _that_  from just punching a wall?” Spy asked.

 

“I didn’t just punch it once,” Scout replied through his teeth. “And I didn’t have on my tape.”

 

“Why did you take off your hand wrappings before punching a wall?”

 

“I dunno,” Scout lied, voice dull.

 

There were a few beats of quiet.

 

“I know why you are upset,” Spy said.

 

“Like hell you do,” Scout bit back without a moment of hesitation. “Like hell you actually know what’s going on. Ever. And like hell you actually care. And like hell I’d tell you anything anyways.”

 

“I do,” Spy insisted. He didn't specify which part.

 

“Fuck _off_  already, okay?” Scout finally snapped, throwing down his bat and turning to face Spy, bloodied fists curling at his sides. The machine clanked to a stop, out of baseballs. Apparently Scout had been counting. “I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear that I wanna be left alone, so could you take a hint and just _beat it_  already?!”

 

Silence for a few seconds. Scout stalked off to the opposite end of the batting cage, starting to pick up the baseballs.

 

“You deserve to have a good father,” Spy finally spat out.

 

Scout straightened up in a flash, eyes narrowed. “...What?” he asked, absolutely certain that he hadn’t heard right. One of the baseballs dropped. He didn’t seem to notice.

 

“You deserved to have a good father,” Spy repeated, just as bitterly as the first time. “You didn’t deserve to have him walk out on you.”

 

“How the hell do you know about that?” Scout asked, bristling.

 

“You deserved to have a father that took care of you and your family,” Spy snarled. “You deserved someone good enough to stick around.”

 

“How do you know anythin’ about my family?!” Scout demanded.

 

“You deserved better, and it’s not your fault. You are a good person. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, you didn’t do anything wrong. You deserve better.”

 

And with that, Spy turned abruptly on heel, storming away again.

 

Scout was left in the batting cage, watching his retreating form with no small amount of confusion. “...What?” he asked quietly, mostly to himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy didn’t look at or talk to anyone as he sat down for breakfast the next day, just digging into his meal fiercely. That wasn’t particularly unordinary, so nobody paid him much mind.

 

What did earn some looks, however, was the fact that Scout walked in almost last.

 

“Well, look who’s finally here,” Engie asked from his seat at the table, raising an eyebrow. “Someone’s runnin’ behind schedule.”

 

“Late start is all,” Scout replied, waving him off. “Slept in a little bit for once. No big deal.”

 

Engie looked quietly surprised at the fact that Scout had replied at all. Scout plopped down at the table with his portion, digging in with a bit of urgency, clearly trying to make up for lost time.

 

Until suddenly he looked over at Heavy. “Hey, Heavy, what’s with the, uh, packet over there?”

 

A few eyes turned to Heavy, who indeed had a good few papers in front of him that he was reading. “Letters from sisters,” he replied evenly. “For holiday.”

 

“Holiday?” Demo asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yes. I get credit for helping raise sisters, they send letter on Father’s Day,” Heavy explained.

 

“That’s an international holiday?” Engie asked, looking a little surprised.

 

“Da. Might have been late, but mail was on time for once,” Heavy said, folding the papers back up neatly.

 

Demo shrugged at that, returning to his food, but Engie seemed to be thinking hard about something. He glanced up at Spy, but Spy kept his eyes on his own plate.

 

“Huh. That’s neat,” Scout said. He ate another mouthful of food. “That reminds me, I should call my big brothers probably. Haven’t talked to them for a little while.”

 

Engie seemed to be putting two and two together, at any rate. He kept glancing over at Scout, who didn’t notice as he focused on inhaling his meal.

 

Spy finished eating and got up to leave. Engie stood as well, his own plate just as empty.

 

In the kitchen, out of earshot, Engie moved shoulder-to-shoulder with Spy. He kept his voice hushed. “So the boy was upset because—“

 

“Oui,” Spy said, scraping his own plate off.

 

“But he’s not upset anymore, so—“

 

“Yes, how strange,” Spy said, putting his dish in the sink and dumping out the remainder of his cup.

 

Engie paused. “Did you say somethin’?” he asked.

 

“Who can say?” Spy shrugged, moving to leave.

 

Engie put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Had it been his flesh-and-blood arm, Spy would’ve shrugged it off and kept walking, but this was the Gunslinger, so he froze at least partially for the sake of his own safety. “Spy. Did you say somethin’?” he asked again, expression serious.

 

Spy looked away. Chewed on his words. “...Oui,” he finally admitted, still not meeting Engie’s eyes.

 

“What’d you say?” he asked next.

 

“Does it matter?” Spy snapped, rolling his eyes. “Clearly the boy is speaking to us again.”

 

Engie looked at Spy for another few seconds before sighing, releasing him. “I suppose,” he relented.

 

Spy moved to leave the room. Before he could make it out the door, Scout spoke up abruptly from the table.

 

“Happy Father’s Day, guys,” he said, stretching his arms up above his head, lacing his tape-covered hands together as he did so. His knuckles looked healed.

 

He wasn’t looking over at Spy, but he wasn’t looking at the rest of the team either.

 

"...Yeah. Happy Father's Day," Engie agreed from in the kitchen.

 

Spy continued out of the room without another word.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[aw man i wonder how spy knew all that stuff oh gosh]]


	5. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[soldier's turn, although this one is a bit different. possibly because i don’t wanna edit it any more]]

 

 

Soldier’s memory issues were a fact of life.

 

His questionable grasp of history aside, he occasionally had issues remembering certain details or things that were said to him. He misheard, or misunderstood, the things that others said with alarming frequency, to the point where you wouldn’t simply tell Soldier something—you’d tell Soldier and someone else, to remind him or correct him if he was confused. The one thing he seemed to understand and remember were his own battle strategies.

 

Spy didn’t particularly care to question why. He and Soldier didn’t really get along—Soldier thought of him as a coward, and Spy thought of Soldier as a brute. They differed from each other, and their differences irritated each other to a great extent.

 

But Spy had a policy. He made it his business to know a little bit about everything. He’d done some cursory digging on his team, and a bit of light questioning when the opportunity arose. He decided that despite it likely never being important to him, he should know at least a little bit about Soldier.

 

So he started to dig.

 

And was startled by the fact that he didn’t find anything.

 

His initial search had been through Medic’s files, who had a copy of various medical records. Medic had caught him, but only because Spy had questions.

 

Stumbling in at 1:30 AM, Medic found him standing at one of the counters, a series of papers spread across the surface of it.

 

“Spy, are those your documents?” Medic asked, looking tired but not at all surprised.

 

“They are now,” Spy had replied evenly.

 

Medic sighed, walking over to the door to his office proper. “I’m putting a kettle on, I assume this will be a while,” he called.

 

“I will try to make this brief,” Spy replied.

 

Medic returned, having shed his long white jacket, and peered down at the papers. “Herr Soldier?” he asked.

 

“Oui. Why does he not have most of his required records?” Spy asked, thumbing at the edge of some of the papers again in case they’d stuck together.

 

“Patient confidentiality,” Medic replied instead of answering him.

 

“You required _me_  to submit my documents,” Spy said, tone edging on accusatory.

 

“Will you continue digging if I do not tell you?” Medic finally asked, tone flat.

 

“Of course, who do you take me for?”

 

Medic just sighed, shaking his head. “At least let me make my tea before this interrogation,” he said, half to himself.

 

Spy decided to be courteous. Medic returned with two cups, and handed the smaller one to Spy.

 

“So?” Spy asked once Medic had settled into a chair.

 

“The simple answer is, he did not submit all of his official documents because he did not have them. The more complex answer is, _nobody_  can find his documents.”

 

“The Administrator can,” Spy said a little bitterly. He wouldn’t have said so if he wasn’t aware that Medic had long since disabled the cameras and microphones in his lab and office.

 

“She can,” Medic agreed. “But she didn’t.”

 

Spy paused. Lowered his cup. Stared. “Why not?” he asked.

 

Medic shrugged. “Of course, I was never involved in such an investigation, even if it happened,” he said airily. Then he grinned. “But if I _were_  to have heard about it somehow through other means, off of official record of course, I would be able to tell you that while some investigations were done on Herr Soldier, they found very little information about him, and he is such a well-behaved dog that the Administrator decided she wouldn’t particularly need information on him. He will never turn.”

 

“Really?” Spy asked, interest piqued. He paused. “Interesting.”

 

“That is all I will tell you myself,” Medic said simply. “And I will discourage you from looking for more information.”

 

“Consider me discouraged, Doctor,” Spy said, sweeping the papers into order and handing the thin file back to Medic.

 

Medic looked up, an eyebrow raised. He carefully took the file back, glanced between it and Spy. Took a sip of tea. “That’s that? You won’t look into the matter further?” Medic asked, clearly caught off guard, clearly suspicious.

 

“Non,” Spy said easily. “I am finished here. I was simply curious about why Soldier did not have records like the rest of us.”

 

Medic seemed surprised, and hummed, putting the file back in its place and closing the cabinet. “I expected you to brush me off and look into the matter regardless of what I said,” Medic admitted after a moment of contemplation.

 

“Now, why would I go and do a thing like that?” Spy asked, laughing at the very idea.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy looked into the matter regardless of what Medic said.

 

What, was he supposed to take the answer “Nobody knows” and walk away? Who in their right mind would do that? Nobody, of course.

 

So his first order of business was looking into what all, exactly, the Administrator knew. That, of course, meant contacting Miss Pauling, and telling a few tiny little lies.

 

Well, maybe not so tiny.

 

“Hello?” she asked, voice tinny through the receiver of the phone.

 

“Guten tag, Pauling,” Spy said, his Medic impression impeccable. “Might you have time to speak with me for a few moments?”

 

“Uhhhhhhh... yeah,” she finally settled on. “I’m not like, currently in a gunfight, so... yeah, okay. Hit me.”

 

“In a recent transfer between bases, there was a bit of an issue with some of my files—I lost about three sets of them,” he said, casting his eyes about him casually.

 

“Uh oh.”

 

“Indeed. Mine were destroyed, as well as Herr Soldier’s and Heavy’s—luckily I keep additional copies for myself, as does Heavy for his own records, but I cannot seem to track down any for Soldier. Is there any chance you und the Administrator might have copies of his records?”

 

“Maybe. How soon do you need them?”

 

“I usually keep records in case of emergency, so, soon if possible, but no reason to go out of your way,” he said, inspecting the cord connecting the phone to the wall.

 

“Okay. You’ll see them in like, ten days then, maybe.”

 

“Splendid! Thank you very much,” he said cordially.

 

“Alright. I uh, I gotta go, but—yeah. See you.”

 

“Goodbye,” he said, and hung up, and dropped his disguise.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Indeed, the papers came in ten days later, and Spy calmly snatched them up before they reached Medic, taking them back to his own quarters before he opened them.

 

And he could continue to dig.

 

Unfortunately, it appeared that the Administrator only had all the same information Medic had—minus some of his medical-specific paperwork detailing the various operations Soldier had undergone and any scrawled notes on him. What appeared to be mere guesses at a birth date, approximations of his age, blank places and "n/a" in most boxes. But one paper in particular wasn’t the same—some form, from a hospital, dating back a little over twenty years. A release form, for a Mr. Jane Doe.

 

Spy suspected that to be an alias, previously, but now something was tickling the back of his memory. Something vaguely familiar about the name “Doe”.

 

He decided to pick up a few contracts to give himself time to investigate.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was just over the border of Illinois, bound for Detroit to kill someone allegedly important (as far as the Administrator knew), when he realized what the name reminded him of.

 

Back... quite some time ago, he had been in a hospital, back when he wasn’t surviving on Mann Co. money and cheap immortality. He was exceedingly bored there, and so had struck up conversation as much as possible, at least partially for when he would need to escape. He’d heard two of the nurses discussing something, mentioning “another Doe” inbound, and he’s inquired about it.

 

Sometimes, when there’s an accident of some kind and someone is sent to the hospital, the doctors can’t find out who the patient is. Being unconscious and likely in critical condition, the patient can’t give out their name, blood type, and next of kin. And sometimes, there isn’t any form of identification available. So, at least until the patient gives a name, identification is found at the site of the incident, or an individual can come in to identify the victim, they’re given a stand-in name—most commonly, John Doe.

 

Two days before his target was due dead in central Detroit, Spy was in a town in northern Wisconsin, trying to track down a hospital that had, apparently, changed names at least three times.

 

Looking at the building, he had a small stab of hope; it looked like a well-kept place. Hopefully they kept their records in order. Hopefully they had something worth digging up.

 

He contemplated who he should disguise as for a few moments, before deciding that it wouldn’t really matter. He doubted that the Administrator would search the security cameras of a hospital a state away from where he was supposed to be. So he disguised as the Soldier, pulled off the helmet and pulled on a shirt with 100% fewer grenades, and went inside.

 

The receptionist was kind to him, running through the opening questions and halting when he gently told her that he actually needed to pick up some records of his.

 

“Okay, well, I’ll need a name, sir,” she said, pulling out a notepad and pen.

 

“Jane Doe,” Spy said, not bothering to properly imitate Soldier’s usual inflection and tone, given that Soldier hadn’t been there in roughly two decades.

 

“Doe?” the receptionist repeated, looking up at him curiously. “...Wait here just a moment.”

 

Spy watched curiously as the receptionist hurried into the room behind the desk and through a door. He waited patiently, eyeing the room, until she returned a few minutes later, another woman in tow, halfway through speaking in a hushed tone.

 

“—and if it isn’t him you can laugh at me all you want, I’m just saying, look at him and just see,” the receptionist said, and the other woman looked up at him tiredly, then blinked, eyebrows coming together.

 

“...It really is you,” the woman finally said.

 

Spy was innocuous in his gaze flickering to her name tag. Marcy, this woman’s name was. A nurse, apparently. “I’m sorry,” he rumbled, shifting on his feet in a perfect imitation of sheepishness. “I... I see that you remember me, but I don’t think I remember you.”

 

Marcy’s eyes softened, and she glanced at the receptionist, who waved them along. Spy and the nurse took a few steps off to the side, a bit down the hallway, out of the way and nearly out of earshot.

 

“So your memory didn’t ever improve then, Jane?” she asked, tone sad. “I’d really been hoping, too.”

 

“I... I did get better for a while, but age hasn’t been kind,” Spy said courteously. “I’m trying to fill in some of the blanks now. Get records, not just for my sake. Remember my own story.”

 

“Well, you were my first John Doe patient,” the nurse said with a smile, “I don’t think we’d still have many records of you, but I do think I remember enough to give you a good picture.”

 

Spy listened intently, even with the small recording device in his sleeve whirring away near-silently, and tried to piece together a picture.

 

Nineteen years and four months prior, a young man, estimated to be around twenty years old, was found on a riverbank a few miles away from town. He was rushed to the hospital, and found to have suffered brain damage from both head trauma and oxygen deprivation in an apparent case of near-drowning, as the river had previously been quite rapid, and a broken raft was found further along the river after investigation.

 

Marcy had only recently become a nurse, and remembered being surprised by the incident of having two John Doe cases at once—by the time this second case came along, the first (an older man who had been in a coma for nearly a week) was looking grim. Nonetheless, they named the second case “Jane Doe” to prevent confusion. John Doe would die two days later, and be identified by family another week later.

 

Jane—and Spy nodded at all the correct times when the name was mentioned—woke up after only one day, but could remember absolutely nothing about his own past. For some reason, Jane remembered that the country was in a time of war, which led Marcy to believe that he might have been a member of the armed forces.

 

“Were there no other clues as to who I was—or am?” he asked, tone just a little pleading.

 

“Well...” Marcy said hesitantly. “I assume you probably came from somewhere upriver. When I mentioned the name of it, you seemed to know what I meant—mentioned, um... New Miner, that little place out by Petenwell.”

 

He put on his most grateful smile, taking hold of the woman’s hands. “Thank you. I can’t express enough how much I appreciate your help,” Spy said in a gentler voice than Soldier had probably ever used in his entire life.

 

The woman smiled right back. “No problem at all. I’m happy to know that you made it out there,” she replied.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two days before a man was due dead in Detroit, just after sunset, Spy arrived in New Miner, a place so small that it could hardly be called a town so much as a village.

 

The area was all fields, what seemed to be mainly corn and soybeans, and the ‘town’ consisted of a general store, a church, a post office, and, in lieu of a library, what appeared to be a bookstore.

 

Spy turned off the engine and considered his options, then walked into the church.

 

It was still open, despite the lateness of the hour. Some lights were on here and there, with one in the hallway towards the front. Spy returned to his disguise as the Soldier, and entered the building.

 

In the main area of the church, he found a priest. Back turned to the room, he seemed to be fiddling with the altar up before the pews.

 

“Sir?” Spy called, a bit quietly so as not to give this elderly-looking man a heart attack.

 

He jumped regardless, turning on shaky, age-worn legs.

 

“Who are you?” the elder asked, squinting at him in the lower light.

 

Spy took a good few steps closer, and suddenly, the man’s eyes widened.

 

“Now, wait just a moment,” the priest said, “I... I remember you. You’re that young man, from all those years ago.”

 

Spy just nodded, deciding to just go along with whatever this old man was on about.

 

“Well, sure took your time, didn’t you?” the priest chuckled, starting to hobble down the steps. “You’re lucky for my god-given patience, young man.”

 

“Do you need any help?” Spy asked, mildly alarmed by the wobble in the man’s step as he descended.

 

“I’ve been going up and down these steps

for forty years, son, I’ll be fine,” the old man replied, waving off his concern. “Follow me. We can retrieve your things. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

 

“Yes,” Spy said, with absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

 

He followed nonetheless, through the doors, down a hallway, and into an area stocked with bookshelves overflowing with books, a table and chairs in the middle. Spy had no idea what the room might be used for. He’d never had much reason to go into churches.

 

“I believe I put it... hmm, let me see...” the old man mumbled, teetering this way and that, before finally picking up a small, flat box from one of the shelves, nearly sending several books tumbling. “Here we are!”

 

Spy took the box, putting it down on the table and opening it.

 

“Do you not trust a man of the church to keep your things safe?” the priest asked when he saw this, frowning.

 

“I just don’t know what all was in here,” Spy said truthfully. Then he saw what the contents were, and he had to restrain himself from gasping.

 

So _this_  is where all of Soldier’s records were!

 

Driver’s license, birth certificate, what appeared to be letters and numbers, his _social security card_  for god’s sake—

 

“I never looked inside,” the priest said from the other side of the table, eyes carefully averted. “But I must admit, I am a bit curious.”

 

Spy closed the box, stowing it under his arm. “Letters,” he said, putting on a sad expression and voice. “From my wife, before she passed. I’d been trying to forget her, forget my grief, but... I couldn’t bear to destroy them.”

 

“Oh, you poor soul,” the priest said, hand over his heart, eyes full of sympathy. Spy tried not to roll his eyes.

 

“I think I’m over the worst of the grief, and I want to show the letters to my daughter—she was too young, never really knew her mother. She was so young...”

 

Spy was certain that he was playing it up too far by then, but the old man held onto his every word. His eyes shone in the low light, and he nodded wordlessly, moving over and putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

“God be with you, young man,” the priest blessed in a shaking voice.

 

“Thank you,” he replied, emotion welling up as Spy fought back laughter. “Thank you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He managed to keep from laughing until he got into the car, which was good.

 

Then he was flicking on the light, looking over the papers.

 

Name, actual date of birth, street address, even report cards from his school—everything was here. Soldier’s entire life, all of his records, here in this box.

 

But the street address was the most important thing here—if he could go there, he could fill in the gaps between, and maybe get some answers as to why Soldier was found on a riverbank in Wisconsin.

 

So he looked at it again.

 

“... _Ohio?_ ” he whispered aloud, voice tinted with disbelief and exasperation. He had somewhere to be the _day after tomorrow_.

 

Oh, well. Time for a flight, it seemed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

18 hours before a man was due dead in Detroit, Spy found himself looking through the window of the rental car, staring at a farmhouse surrounded by fields of corn.

 

He had put his Soldier disguise on, but suddenly something in his chest had gone... heavy. A weight forming, almost threatening his throat, as he looked up at the place where, according to records, Soldier had lived from birth until nearly legal drinking age, and suddenly disappeared from.

 

His suspicion as to why continued to nag at him until he dropped the Soldier disguise and got out of the car.

 

He knocked at the door, and heard the sound of dogs barking from within. An indistinct voice calling something, a good bout of shuffling and speaking, and the door was opened just a crack.

 

Spy kept his face neutral, but internally he frowned. The woman at the door seemed to be no older than Soldier—perhaps younger, even. If not his mother, than who was this?

 

“Hello,” the woman said, looking him up and down curiously through the limited space that the door opened—from the looks of it, a small enough gap that the several dogs within couldn’t get through despite their feverent attempts to do so. “Uh. Not to sound rude, but... who are you?”

 

“I’m here to ask a few questions,” he replied, tone passive, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible.

 

The woman frowned. “Uh. Do you have a warrant?” she asked next.

 

Spy laughed, a little startled. “Oh, I’m not law enforcement,” he reassured. “I am looking for information on someone who I believe you may know.”

 

She nodded hesitantly for him to continue, despite the suspicion written on her face.

 

“A young man left this place twenty years ago and disappeared, and I am trying to find out why,” Spy elaborated.

 

There was silence but for the sounds of frenzied claws on wooden floor as the dogs continued to try and squirm through the crack in the door. The woman stared at him.

 

“How do you know about that?” she finally asked quietly.

 

“Through a great deal of effort and no small amount of travel,” he replied. “I presume that means you know what I am referring to?”

 

“Yeah. I... yeah. Wait here, I’ll put the dogs away, I... I think my mom will want to be here for this conversation,” the woman said, and closed the door.

 

Spy waited patiently, and moved to sit on one of the wicker chairs on the porch, ignoring the fact that it would likely leave an odd sort of wrinkle to his suit.

 

The air was clean here, in a different way than it was out near the base. The base was dry, and smelled of dust. Here, there was water in the air, and the smell of plant life. He had noticed that the barn was quite a ways away, but he imagined that if he approached it, he would be able to smell the animals as well, and hay. He hadn’t spent much time on farms, but there was something nice about them, he supposed.

 

The woman came out of the door again, an older woman trailing just behind, looking at him suspiciously.

 

“Uh. Is out here good?” the woman asked who Spy presumed to be the mother she had mentioned earlier. She received a nod in return, and the two settled into wicker chairs as well.

 

“So... you mentioned my brother,” the younger woman finally said, breaking the silence before it could settle. “The one who left all those years ago.” Spy nodded, understanding clicking into place, alongside a small amount of guilt.

 

“Yes. I have been tracking him backwards, as it were, trying to find where he came from,” Spy said. “And this appears to be the last stop. Or rather, the first.”

 

The mother inhaled, exhaled, looked out into the field. “What’s it matter to you?” she asked, a little stiffly.

 

Spy considered the question for a few moments. “I suppose I am simply curious as to what all he’s forgotten,” he replied, seeing no reason not to be honest.

 

Then, seeing the expressions on the faces of the two before him, he realized that maybe there _was_  a good reason not to be honest.

 

“Forgotten?” the sister asked, voice quiet.

 

“What’s that mean?” the mother asked, tone a little sharp.

 

Spy paused, considered his options. Well, no good reason to waste energy on making up a story, he supposed. And he’d already slipped up.

 

“Your son—and brother—contracted severe head trauma and lost most of his functioning memories,” Spy said. “Along with memory and certain higher cognitive thinking, he lost that portion of his mind entirely. He does not know where he comes from before a certain date.”

 

“Oh god,” the mother said, hand over her mouth. “Did he live?”

 

“Yes, another twenty years at least, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s likely still alive,” Spy said, turning his words around just a bit. “But he was found in Wisconsin. Do either of you have any idea what he was doing up there?”

 

They exchanged one more look between each other, then, all at once, they began to tell the story.

 

 

* * *

 

 

10 hours before a man was due dead in Detroit, Spy boarded a plane, a briefcase in hand. It wasn’t full to the bursting and overflowing with sensitive documents—at least, not the usual kind of sensitive documents. Instead, it was packed rather lightly, all things considered. With photos, letters, and official documents.

 

Every stitch of paper on Soldier’s past—every piece of official documentation regarding the true identity of alias Jane Doe—was contained within the briefcase. His family had handed it all over voluntarily, said that they had no more use for it than he did.

 

Then again, they didn’t seem to quite understand the situation.

 

As the plane took off, Spy did something he rarely allowed. He tried to empathize with the Soldier as a youth, tried to imagine for a moment, weave together exactly what had happened.

 

He’d woken up in a hospital in Wisconsin, with no memory of his life, his family, or even his name. A young man with a life ahead of him, but no frame of reference on what life lay behind him, and due to the head trauma, incredibly stunted abilities in memory or higher logical thinking. No money, no name.

 

And then, a very kind nurse, who surely he’d latched onto as the only person who was constant in his life, told him that perhaps he was a soldier.

 

And that became his identity. He would then go on to apply to every branch of the armed forces, perhaps hoping that someone, anyone, would have a clue as to who he was. Then he was rejected, likely due to being unable to produce documentation, as well as being unable to pass whatever written exam was handed to him. So he would make his way over to fight in the war all on his own as a vigilante—in the first country he can remember the United States being at war with; Germany.

 

Soldier’s entire identity was based on the concept that he had been in the army. The concept that he was maybe a hero, and that somewhere, a cadet or private or lieutenant or captain or _someone_  would remember him, could give him a clue as to who he was. A birthday, a home town, a _name_ , at the very least.

 

Spy looked over one of the pieces of paper in the briefcase in particular. He kept coming back to it, reading and re-reading over and over. A fixation of sorts, formed with what was possibly the last letter that Soldier had written before he woke up as Jane Doe. It was eloquent, well-worded, and the penmanship was crisp, and the emotion shone through. It was a lovely piece of writing.

 

It was left behind back when Soldier tried to dodge the draft.

 

Spy folded it, returned it to the case again, drumming his fingers on the surface.

 

Soldier’s entire identity was built on a lie. Not only was he not a soldier at the time he had remembered, he was not a soldier even before then, as he’d so vehemently believed. He was never an American hero, never saved lives in the trenches. He couldn’t have been further from the truth. The war and the draft took _everything_  from him. His life, his memory, his mind. He had nothing after the draft came. Nothing at all.

 

And now here Spy was, at the end of the path he’d decided to walk. Here, holding the briefcase that in turn held the truth. A man’s entire story, Soldier’s life, the solution to the mystery, all in his hand.

 

With that briefcase came a choice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Miss Pauling, I have a favor to ask of you.”

 

Over the phone, her sigh sounded a little bit like static, but Spy was used to the sound and so identified it instantly. “Hello to you too, Spy. Man, great to hear from my friends, for no other reason than to simply talk and catch up with each other.”

 

“My apologies, but I am in a bit of a rush,” Spy said. “And it is not a terribly difficult favor.”

 

“Okay, fine, sure. What’s the favor?”

 

“I simply need an additional twelve hours once this mission is completed to conduct some business of a more personal nature,” Spy said crisply.

 

“You know that the Administrator is getting mad at you for going to Boston to see your lady friend so often.”

 

Spy, being trained in hiding his emotions and controlling his facial cues, absolutely did not go red in the face at the implication. “It—it is not _that_  type of personal business,” he clarified.

 

“Spy, I’m serious, it’s not that long until break, please don’t just run to Boston—“

 

“I am being sincere,” Spy insisted. “And twelve hours it not nearly enough time to go to Boston.”

 

“Quitter talk,” Miss Pauling muttered, barely audible over the sound of papers rustling. “Uhh... yeah, I can manage that. Just please try and get back sooner if at all possible. And Spy? I seriously don’t have time to be burying anyone. Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

 

“Getting in trouble? Moi?” Spy asked, feigning offense.

 

“Jerk,” Miss Pauling muttered. “You know your target is due dead in like, five hours, right?”

 

“Of course, I am on my way as soon as I finish this phone call,” Spy said flippantly. “I have spent the past days tailing him. I am not an amateur.”

 

“Okay. Just making sure,” she said. “You’ve got an additional twelve hours after the deadline. That’s eighteen total. Use them wisely.”

 

“Thank you,” Spy said graciously, and he heard the phone click.

 

 

* * *

 

 

14 hours after a man was killed in Detroit, and 10 hours after he was found dead, Spy once more began to dig.

 

That wasn’t unusual in his career. Digging for information was par for the course—hell, it practically _was_  the course. But it was rather more rare for him to be digging with a literal shovel in the ground. That was more a job for Miss Pauling—but she couldn’t know of this, so he had to do his literal dirty work all on his own.

 

It didn’t need to be a deep hole, just deep enough to not be found unless someone was looking for it.

 

He pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and contemplated removing his gloves as well before deciding that they would prevent callouses from forming. Then he set to work with the shovel with unhurried determination. He knew that this wouldn’t take the three hours he had remaining before he absolutely needed to continue driving back to the base. He had enough time.

 

Two hours later, the briefcase was buried safely and securely, and Spy, tired and sweaty from the manual labor, continued on his way back to base.

 

Of course he wouldn’t tell Soldier what he’d found. His identity was fragile, his sense of self rickety, the only concrete part of himself the concept that he might have been a hero. To tell Soldier that he was wrong, that he was the exact type of person he had decided was the scum of the earth—a draft-dodger of all things—would destroy him. He would be broken by that, presented with that proof, presented with the fact that war had taken everything from him, and would continue to do so.

 

No, Spy would not tell him. Or anyone else, for that matter, especially the Administrator. Nobody should hold that much power over the Soldier, nobody should have the ability to destroy him packed in an easy-to-carry briefcase, alphabetized for convenience. If Soldier ever seemed curious about his past, or unhappy with himself, then Spy would reconsider. The co-ordinates to the burial place and precise instructions on how to find it were written down, copied, and he would have one copy for himself and give one to the Medic in case Spy disappeared someday. But nobody else could ever know the lengths to which Spy had gone to uncover the truth, or what that truth was. Nobody could know the burden he would now carry, somewhere in the very back of his mind.

 

Sometimes kindness is not in giving to someone, but rather in refusing to take.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[guys, i'm starting to wonder if spy like, actually cares about his team or something. it's subtle, but i think there might be some foreshadowing buried in here...]]


	6. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[im DONE editing this FUCKING chapter just TAKE IT just fuckin TAKE IT ALREADY]]

 

The battlefield was no place to be wasting time.

 

When in the midst of war, ten seconds is an eternity. An Ubercharge only lasted eight seconds total. Spy could only cloak for a maximum of nine seconds, usually less. Ten seconds can make or break a match. Ten seconds can turn the tide of the entire day.

 

So the fact that Spy was stopping for ten seconds at a time every other minute was a bit of a problem.

 

The coughing fits were only getting worse. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to run properly, to fight properly. He found himself mainly drifting around in his own team’s territory, invisible and hunched over, choking on air. He couldn’t even take deep enough breaths to smoke, and quite frankly he was tired of it. He didn’t think that it was just another “getting older” symptom like the bad joints and general fatigue, so admittedly he did take some solace in knowing that like any other illness, it would pass eventually.

 

That said, he knew that a trip to Medic would result in a day off the field, which wasn’t something Spy wanted. He needed to stay busy and occupied. He couldn’t take a sick day.

 

He made it an impressive four hours in battle before someone finally caught that something was wrong.

 

It was Heavy, who was charging back towards the front lines, but slowed to a stop when he heard Spy coughing. He revved up his gun and turned in place, keeping an eye out for a flash of the other team’s colors. Spy straightened up quickly, dropping his cloak, not particularly feeling like being shot.

 

“What is Spy doing?” Heavy asked once Spy was back in full view, fixing an odd look on him.

 

“Waiting a few minutes,” Spy said simply.

 

“Why?”

 

“It lulls the enemy team into a false sense of security,” Spy said, the lies rolling easily off his tongue. “They will stop checking for my presence, and that is when I can most effectively strike.”

 

And he probably would’ve gotten away with the lie if not for his voice cracking on the last word.

 

Heavy tilted his head. “Voice sounds strange,” he observed suspiciously.

 

“I’m fine,” Spy lied. “Simply the dry air.”

 

“Has not been problem before now.”

 

“Yes it has,” Spy lied. His voice wavered as he desperately tried to hold back another coughing fit.

 

Heavy looked at him for a few long seconds, a scrutinizing eye that few had the misfortune to fall under in the team. Spy didn’t fidget.

 

“Medic!” Heavy finally called, voice carrying easily across the field.

 

Spy cloaked.

 

Unfortunately, Heavy saw that reaction coming, and before he could dash away he was lifted by the nape of his neck like a kitten.

 

“Release me!” Spy cried indignantly, flailing and twisting and attempting to escape.

 

“Nyet,” Heavy replied without missing a beat, holding him out a bit further to keep himself safe from flailing limbs but otherwise not struggling in the slightest.

 

“I am not a child! Let me go!” Spy’s protests continued loudly despite how increasingly raw his voice sounded, and a few moments later Medic was dashing onto the scene.

 

He’d fixed the beam of his Medigun on Heavy reflexively before he even noticed Spy.

 

He frowned, shutting off his Medigun. “What is going on?” he asked, looking between the two.

 

“Spy is acting not normal,” Heavy said simply.

 

“I am doing no such thing!”

 

“Have you Spychecked him?” Medic asked.

 

“Is this not effective Spycheck?” Heavy asked, shaking Spy despite the squawk of protest that it illicited from the Frenchman.

 

“A good point,” Medic mused, nodding.

 

Their conversation was interrupted as Pyro dashed in calling for Medic, but they suddenly paused, looking over the scene. The tone of their mumble was inquisitive as Medic switched on his Medigun, healing their wounds quickly.

 

“Apparently, Herr Spy is acting strange,” Medic explained.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Heavy says you are, and I believe him more than I believe you,” Medic said flatly.

 

Spy was sure that he should be offended by that, but really, that was probably fair.

 

Whatever comment he was going to make next was interrupted as Engie walked through, machinery hefted in his arms.

 

“Pyro, I’m gonna need you to cover me while I take this out to... well, what in tarnation is everyone stood around here for?”

 

“An excellent question!” Spy exclaimed, throwing his arms out and choking back the instinct to clear his raw throat.

 

Pyro launched into an explanation, using plenty of gestures, and Engie nodded along until they were done.

 

“Well, sounds like a regular day to me,” he shrugged despite the weighty machinery in his arms.

 

“One day, please teach us to understand what Pyro is saying,” Medic said.

 

“Just listen better, that’s all it is.”

 

Pyro said something that was probably in agreement.

 

Before that statement could be parsed out, Scout dashed in.

 

“Yo, Hardhat, your dispenser is down, can you—yo, what’s happenin’ over here?” he asked, glancing around.

 

“Spy’s actin’ fishy,” Engie said.

 

Scout rolled his eyes. “Name one time literally ever when that hasn’t been the case.”

 

“Excuse you,” Spy rasped through the distraction of a possibly collapsing windpipe, feeling more undignified with each passing second he spent seperated from the ground.

 

“I dunno, but Heavy was concerned, so the Doc is concerned, so I suppose we should be concerned too,” Engie said with a shrug.

 

Sniper, who had been walking by, stopped and just looked at the small crowd that had gathered. A beat of silence.

 

“What’s happening?” he finally asked, a little exasperated.

 

“Spy’s weird,” Scout said.

 

“ _WHO IS FIGHTING THE BATTLE?!_ ” Spy cried, eight steps past frustration. The sudden outburst was enough to tip his self-control over the edge, and Heavy was alarmed enough to set him down as he suddenly started to cough profusely, and the moment his feet connected with dirt again he doubled over, half-retching at the intensity of it, eyes watering.

 

“Ahhh, okay, he’s sick,” Engie astutely observed, really putting to use all his PhDs by showcasing such perception. “Alright, move along everyone, this is a job for me an’ the Doctor. Go on, shoo!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy was dragged back to Resupply and ushered through the teleporter back to main base, where he was put under orders to report to the Medbay once he heard the team returning from battle.

 

Once the team came back from battle, he managed to hide for about an hour before Medic finally tracked him down.

 

Heavy was in the medical bay when Spy sulked in, as was Demo, who was under the healing ray of the Medigun, apparently being slowly stitched back up from some kind of operation. Heavy nodded at the pair as they entered, and Demo just waved his bottle at Spy, continuing to ramble about whatever he was rambling about. Spy ignored them.

 

“Symptoms?” Medic asked as soon as he’d picked up one of his clipboards and a pen, ready to start writing things down.

 

“Irritation, murderous impulses, a strange desire to strangle men in lab coats—“ Spy started, tone dull.

 

“So mentally, your usual condition?” Medic snarked back.

 

“Play nice,” Heavy rumbled from across the room.

 

Spy muttered a few choice phrases of French.

 

“With that out of the way, physical symptoms? Coughing, obviously,” Medic said, more level now.

 

Spy sighed lightly, deciding to just give up the ghost, as it were. “Aside from usual? Some trouble breathing, dizziness, coughing, sore throat, headaches, and very mild nausea, but only when coughing fits are worse. It is painful to inhale too deeply, and I have been extremely tired.”

 

Medic jotted words down on the paper as Spy spoke. He continued to write for a few moments before he finally just nodded to himself, setting the paper down. “Hmm. My first thought is... ugh. What is the English word?”

 

“I speak German.”

 

“Ah! Right! Halsentzündung?”

 

Admittedly, Spy had to think for a few moments. “...Strep throat?” he asked, feigning confidence in his answer.

 

“Ja! Strep throat. But generally it would not be described alongside “trouble breathing”. My second guess...” Medic glanced over towards the other two occupants of the medbay, lowered his voice slightly. “My second guess is that smoking is catching up to you.”

 

“Symptoms would not onset so quickly if my lungs were giving out,” Spy said, expertly masking the terror creeping up his spine.

 

“Not normally. But if coupled with some respiratory infection, they might. I think you may simply have some common infection of the lungs and throat, and it is made more severe by decades of smoking.”

 

Spy sighed at that, stifling a light cough. “So?” he asked.

 

“So, bedrest,” Medic shrugged, pushing his glasses up. “I would suggest smoking as little as possible, eating foods that would be easy on the throat, and sleeping the illness off. No excercise, no additional physical strain, no alcohol, and, again, _please no smoking_. I will provide a few medicines to ease the way.”

 

“Why can’t you just patch’im up with your fancy healing gun?” Demo asked from across the room.

 

Medic sighed, looking put-out. “Unfortunately, illnesses are the one thing I cannot fix by my usual means, particularly this type of illness,” he replied, voice raising slightly to be heard. “Although I can prescribe incredibly effective medicines, the healing vapors can potentially do more harm than help.”

 

“Why’s that?” Demo asked, looking intrigued. Spy admittedly often forgot that Demo was a man of science, the same as the Engineer or Medic.

 

“The Medigun and its contents spur on cell production in the body to work at a generally inhuman rate. Unfortunately, it does not differentiate between human cells and other types of cells. It causes the immune system to work extremely rapidly, yes, but also the illness. If the immune system does not win out over the illness—which it _generally_  does, but not always, and not if the body is already weakened—then the individual will die, and will Respawn with extremely strong illness cells that have evolved far beyond the immune system. And it is possible that the illness would then spread, and become a small epidemic, and potentially just kill us all repeatedly until our bodies can sort it out.”

 

By the end of Medic’s mini-lecture, he had gotten crisp in tone, clinical. He paused, noted the uncomfortable and slightly fearful silence in the room. Spy coughed lightly.

 

“I did some tests of it,” Medic said sheepishly, pushing his glasses up, moving to the medicine cabinet on one wall and starting to peer through it. “It’s an interesting phenomenon.”

 

“Is that why you always tell us lot to come to you soon as we think we’re getting sick?” Demo asked weakly. “So we don’t accidentally create the sequel to smallpox?”

 

“Ja.” Medic pulled two bottles from the cabinet and shut the door again, moving to hand them over to Spy. “So, bedrest und medicine.”

 

“How had you not heard his lecture on illness yet?” Spy asked Demo suspiciously.

 

“Herr Demoman rarely gets ill,” Medic said. “His immune system is strong.”

 

“It’s the alcohol,” Demo shrugged.

 

“I refuse to confirm or deny if it is the alcohol,” Medic said.

 

Spy nodded at that, taking the two bottles and storing them in his pockets, standing and moving to leave the room.

 

“And Spy?” Medic said lightly, shutting off the healing ray where it was fixed on Demo and shooing him from his cot. “If you attempt to come into battle before I have deemed it appropriate, your illness will be the least of your worries.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy took approximately three hours to remember why he hated being sick.

 

Obviously, the illness itself. But more than that, everything felt _gross_. He ended up having to isolate himself in his room behind approximately eighteen locks because he couldn’t stand having too many layers on, and so stripped to just an undershirt and shorts, bare of gloves and mask and all his usual physical barriers. He kept alternating between being too hot and too cold, and spent the entirety of the first day out of battle just curled up feeling miserable. With his headache he couldn’t even sit and _read_ , for god’s sake.

 

And he would quite literally rather die or murder someone before he admitted it, but outside of boredom, it was...

 

It was lonely, holed up in his room, keeping everyone else from getting sick.

 

The one good thing was the fact that thanks to what Medic prescribed him, he spent most of his time asleep. He would then wake up roughly twice a day and go get himself something to eat, then he would eat it very quickly because he was very hungry, then he would chug down water, then he would essentially go knock himself out again.

 

The remaining four days of the work week passed like that, and Spy wasn’t feeling all that much better. And Friday evening was the worst, because he could hear from his room the sound of liveliness and chatter. A part of him didn’t want anything to do with the rest of the team while he was so miserable, as surely they wouldn’t improve his mood. Another part of him wanted to at least go and witness their usual shenanigans, even if he didn’t take part in them.

 

But mostly, he was just hungry, and he knew that they would all be up well into the night and waiting them out before he got food was ridiculous. He was a grown man.

 

That said, he still attempted to move quietly when he passed through the rec room to get the the kitchen. It was to no avail. Spy winced as, halfway through making himself something to eat, someone finally noticed that he was there.

 

“Oi, look who’s still alive!” Demo called from his place around the card-playing table, tone bright. “Where’ve ya been?”

 

“Resting,” Spy replied, and coughed lightly at the pain of speaking with such a raw throat. His voice was completely shot, he realized too late.

 

“Wow, you sound like shit,” Scout chirped helpfully.

 

“Scoot,” Engie chided, giving him a look as he shuffled the deck.

 

“What, you think he sounds fine? Mumbles, back me up.”

 

Pyro nodded, mumbling something in the affirmative.

 

“Exactly!” Scout said, point made.

 

Spy rolled his eyes, returning to the arduous process of making a sandwich with the meager materials left over from the usual Friday festivities. He was always suggesting that they move grocery day so they wouldn’t all be scrounging for food Friday night and Saturday morning, but he remained unheeded.

 

He heard the fridge opening off to one side and glanced up, noticing that Sniper was peering quietly at the contents. He ignored the other man’s presence, continuing to glare at the meager materials before him and trying to figure out what he could possibly make with them, until a container appeared beside them.

 

He glanced at it—leftovers?—and then up at Sniper, who was just stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze averting as soon as Spy looked up.

 

“Uh. There,” Sniper said, voice quiet.

 

“What is this?” Spy asked, picking it up and looking it over.

 

“Soup. Heavy made it a night or so back. Didn’t eat all of mine, so. Leftovers,” Sniper said awkwardly, shrugging.

 

“Non, I meant why are you giving this to me?” Spy clarified, suspicion cutting through the painful grate of his voice.

 

“You’re hungry,” Sniper said simply. “An’ soup’s supposed to be good when you’re sick, an’... you’re sick. So.” He scratched at the back of his head, searched for words. “...Y’know.”

 

Spy continued to look at him suspiciously, then at the leftovers, then back up. “Why are—“ he tried, but his voice wavered and he was sent coughing into his elbow, eyes watering.

 

“Just, just take it, don’t worry about it,” Sniper assured, some alarm trickling into his voice at the sudden coughing fit. “Thank me later when your voice isn’t shot to bugger.”

 

Spy was too distracted to properly respond, and so just nodded vaguely.

 

He ate the soup.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning he went in to see Medic to check up on his progress, and was given a slight surprise.

 

He looked between the bag and the individual holding it out to him, namely their resident Russian. “What are these?” he asked.

 

“Is candy,” Heavy said simply. “Found in store.”

 

“Why are you giving me this?”

 

“Has honey. Honey soothes sick throat,” Heavy replied. “Have little sisters, taken care of many sicknesses in cold winter and in spring. Will help you.”

 

Medic scoffed as he entered the medical bay from his connected office, holding a tray with a few mugs on it. “Heavy, must you think one step ahead of me?” he chided, but his expression didn’t hold any irritation, clearly in high spirits for whatever reason. “I already said I am making tea.”

 

Heavy just smiled in response, and Spy accepted the mug offered to him with only a bit of confusion. “I admit, I’ve never gone in for a checkup and been given tea and candy before,” Spy said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I may be your doctor, but I am also your friend,” Medic said, tone cheerful and genuine, leaving Spy completely without words.

 

He busied himself with sipping his tea until he could think of a response. Luckily, Heavy cut in before he could look too surprised.

 

“Heavy has also given recipe to Demoman,” the large man said, handling his own mug with care. “Will be making soup for lunch, always what little sisters ask for when sick. Does not matter if it is cold or stomach sickness, always they eat all of it. Good recipe, from mother’s mother.”

 

Spy looked between them, unequipped for handling such open displays of trust and affection. In his career, displays like that were few and far between. He didn’t really know what to say.

 

A coughing fit broke the silence before he got a chance.

 

“I suppose that’s as good a reminder as any to get on with your checkup,” Medic said.

 

Spy thanked any diety that was listening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pneumonia.

 

That was Medic’s final verdict, by the end of the checkup.

 

 _Pneumonia_.

 

 _Fuck’s_  sake.

 

Spy understood how quickly pneumonia could spread and just how bad it would be if the rest of the team got it, so he worked to be even more reclusive than usual.

 

He spent most of Sunday just cooped up in his room, trying to read to ease the boredom, and was surprised when sometime in the afternoon he heard a knock on his door.

 

He sighed, moving to quickly and efficiently pull on a few layers over his undershirt and compression shorts—namely his usual long-sleeve shirt, gloves, mask. That was sufficient enough for him to at least open the door and peek out to see who it was.

 

To his surprise, it was Pyro.

 

“Hello,” Spy said, polite but curious. “Did you need something?”

 

Pyro replied, and gestured past Spy.

 

“You wish to come in?” Spy asked for confirmation’s sake. Pyro nodded. Spy hesitated for a moment before stepping aside and allowing them to pass.

 

They peered around for a moment as Spy went to shut the door. The moment it was closed, they moved to pull off their own mask, taking a seat in one of the two chairs in the room.

 

Spy pulled off his button-up and mask again, moving to sit in the other chair, knowing that the “letting Pyro see his face” ship had probably sailed the second or third time he gave them a haircut.

 

“So, did you need something?” Spy asked, voice still a bit rough but no longer painful.

 

Pyro nodded and went to their bag, half-hidden under the bulk of their suit. From it, they pulled a flat cardboard box and set it on the table.

 

Spy looked at it for a few seconds before raising his eyebrow at Pyro. “Scrabble?” he asked.

 

Pyro nodded. “Wanna play?” they asked, voice soft, almost shy.

 

“Why would you ask me? Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” Spy asked, eyebrows drawing together.

 

Their expression brightened, and they moved to fish in their bag again. In a moment, they’d pulled a surgical mask over their nose and mouth.

 

Spy huffed a half-laugh, then had to clear his throat before he next spoke. “Well, I cannot attest to how entertaining I will be,” he said. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather play with someone else on the team?”

 

Pyro’s nose wrinkled up a bit as they cast their gaze at the door. “Sunday’s monthly drinking game day,” they murmur-whispered.

 

“And you do not drink,” Spy added, earning a nod. “Why is that? I always assumed it was because you dislike eating or drinking in front of everyone.”

 

“I’m allergic to alcohol,” Pyro said, tone still bright if sheepish.

 

Spy’s eyebrows rose an increment, but then he just shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said.

 

The two of them unpacked the box and began setting things out. Generally, when Spy and Pyro were in each other’s company alone like this, they spent the time in silence. For whatever reason, Pyro seemed self-conscious about their voice once their mask came off, in the same way they seemed self-conscious about making eye contact. Spy tried not to pry about it, despite his inherent curiosity on any subject that it was clear few people knew. Then again, he was also fairly sure that he could outright ask and get a straight answer—for whatever reason, Pyro was extremely honest with him.

 

He would almost go as far as to say that they really trusted him, but he couldn’t be sure. Either way, he... usually tried to return the favor in terms of honesty. It was only fair.

 

“And,” Pyro said, stalling on the word for a moment. Spy waited patiently. “...And isn’t it lonely?”

 

Spy didn’t reply, instead changing the subject, which was answer enough. “May I spell words in French as well as English?” he asked, looking up from the board.

 

“Only if I can use Spanish,” Pyro shot back, expression playful if averted.

 

Spy shrugged. “Alright.”

 

They’d gone on for a few turns, all in silence, before Spy spoke next.

 

“Yes,” he said quietly, and Pyro glanced up at him, “I was, admittedly, getting bored being by myself. So... thank you. For... for coming to keep me company. Odd as it may sound, being alone for long periods of time is taxing on me.”

 

Pyro hummed, a noise meant to spur him into talking more.

 

“I simply don’t... enjoy being alone with my thoughts,” he elaborated. “It tends to put me in a melancholy mood. I start getting... sentimental.”

 

Pyro nodded as if in understanding, which raised a few questions, but Spy didn’t ask any. Instead, he extended one of Pyro’s words.

 

A few more beats of silence.

 

“Merde, I miss my wife,” he finally sighed.

 

That certainly got Pyro’s attention. They perked up, eyes going a bit wide. “You have a _wife_?!” they whisper-yelled, absolutely gleeful, the loudest they’d ever gotten without their mask to muffle their voice.

 

Spy allowed himself a smile. “Oui,” he said, and pulled off his glove to show his wedding ring to the firebug. “I have for quite some time. She is... well, she is incredible. I love her with all my heart.”

 

“Tell me _everything_ ,” they gasped, eyes borderline sparkling, game completely forgotten.

 

Spy raised an eyebrow. “You do not want to be saying that,” he warned. “I will bore you to death with details. It is not often that I get the chance to talk about her.”

 

“ _Everything_ ,” Pyro insisted.

 

It was nearly an hour later when Spy finally took a breath between talking about his wonderful beautiful perfect goddess of a wife to ask whether Pyro was planning to eat dinner or not. Pyro reluctantly admitted that they should probably go get something to eat before the kitchen was destroyed in the aftermath of the usual drinking competitions. But they promised to come back later, and they did, this time with a few other games, and they stayed with him, each rambling about random topics until Spy’s voice was nearly completely gone and Pyro seemed to be running out of steam.

 

Then, and only then, did Pyro finally extract themselves from the room, promising to come and keep him company after battle the next day if Spy wouldn’t be too bothered by their presence. Spy replied that no, he would actually really appreciate that, thank you.

 

There, as Spy struggled between sleep and the pain settling in his chest, he wondered vaguely to himself if maybe he’d shared too much. Nothing he’d shared could be used directly against him, of course, but still he’d been rather open.

 

For some reason, he couldn’t seem to muster much concern.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up briefly at the same time as the others, not getting ready for battle, but at least going to check in for breakfast. The moment Medic laid eyes on him he looked concerned, and told Spy to check in with him as soon as the battle was over, but Spy didn’t feel that much worse than usual, just lightheaded, with his coughing a tiny bit thicker than usual.

 

He just ate a meal (reheated soup made by Demo), and went back to his room to chug down water and take some medicine to make himself pass out until battle would probably be over for the day.

 

When he woke up only a few hours later, he knew something was wrong instantly.

 

He coughed, but instead of dislodging fluid from his throat, his eyes went wide as he became aware of the singular sensation of his lungs being full of fluid. Usually if this happened, it was because he was drowning in blood, and he would die rather quickly thereafter due to retaining more bullet or stab or blunt-force-trauma wounds.

 

But he was lying there in his own bed, with nothing to speed the process as he began to suffocate to death.

 

It was... among the most terrifying ways to die. He choked, he jerked, he shuttered, he twitched, but nothing could seem to convince his lungs to take in enough air. He gripped desperately at his own throat, the edges of his vision clouding, static filling his ears, and painfully slowly, he died.

 

He woke up in the team’s Respawn, the sound of battle terribly close by.

 

Abject, complete terror, and he bolted to his locker, hiding his face in it as he quickly procured one of his masks, pulling it on. Gloves next, and a spare jacket from someone else’s locker—Soldier’s? He couldn’t tell. He could still barely breathe, and his lungs were slowly refilling with fluid again already.

 

He was panicking, he knew he was panicking, he was _fucking aware_ , but that didn’t stop it, and he couldn’t stand, too dizzy as he was trapped between hyperventilating and coughing his lungs out.

 

He processed that this wasn’t even their main Resupply. The match of the day was apparently Payload. The teleporter back to main base would be across the whole damn map. He’d never make it. And if he didn’t _stop fucking panicking_  soon, he would suffocate again and perhaps wind up even further away.

 

Fuck. _Fuck_.

 

He processed the presence of someone else, a few feet away from him, spat out by the Respawn system. Two people, actually.

 

“The fuck?” Spy heard, and he jerked his head up, and watched Scout’s expression shift from confusion to horror.

 

“Bloody hell, _Spy?!”_ Sniper asked, as incredulous as he was terrified.

 

“Help,” he barely croaked through his struggle to breathe.

 

The next few moments came as if from far away, and he didn’t bother trying to add anything, just trying to focus on keeping his breathing even enough to stay conscious.

 

Scout spoke, as he did most things, quickly. “Fuck. Hardhat, come in, you there?—Snipes, you start taking him back to main Resupply, I gotta track down Medic— _Hardhat, come in, seriously!_ —this is why you people leave your _fucking_  comms on— _Engie, are you there?! We need the teleporter to main base NOW!”_

 

He heard the telltale _wshhh_  of the doors as Scout darted out into the field, and within only a few moments Sniper had taken Spy by the arm, hefting it over his shoulder and moving out the doors into the battlefield, Spy trying to keep his legs under him.

 

“C’mon, Spook, stay with me,” Sniper said sharply when Spy’s eyes fell closed, blackness seeping into his vision. “Stay awake.”

 

“I am,” Spy mumbled, blinking rapidly, trying not to stumble.

 

“C’mon. Just—just keep talkin’, it’ll keep you awake,” Sniper suggested.

 

“Talking?” Spy repeated, mind muggy. “ _What should I even talk about?”_

 

“I don’t speak French, but, if that’s what keeps you awake,” Sniper said, trying for a joking tone, but his voice was dry.

 

 _“I’m speaking in French?”_ Spy asked. “ _God. I’m dying, aren’t I? This is it. Thirty years as a spy, and I’m done in by the sequel to the flu."_

 

“Sure thing,” Sniper agreed, clearly with no idea what Spy was talking about. He was clearly struggling to help hold Spy up, but he refused to give up, even as his muscles trembled in exertion. “C’mon, step up. There you go. What else?”

 

“ _You don’t understand French, I could say anything I want and you wouldn’t know,_ ” Spy murmured between large, gasping inhales, eyes closing for a moment as sunlight filtered past his eyelashes. _“Whatever insult I can think of. But you’d probably know, you’ve heard them all.”_

 

“Good point,” Sniper agreed, tone only a bit strained. "Keep talking."

 

“Why are you do this?” Spy asked haltingly, his English fracturing along the fault lines of his oxygen-starved mind.

 

“Well, I owed you one,” Sniper replied as if it were simple, as if any favor could repay the one Sniper was doing here. “Lean against this wall. Truckie should be here in a second, just, just hold on, alright?” The last words were spoken as Sniper shrugged out from underneath Spy’s arm, trying to help him stand independently.

 

“Wait,” Spy gasped, the terror setting in again, “I can’t, I—“

 

“Easy, there,” Sniper said quickly, hands on Spy’s shoulders. “I’m only a few feet away. I’ve gotta drag the teleporter out for when Truckie gets here. Just wait there.”

 

“It’s, but it... is difficult,” Spy managed to choke, fighting back a coughing fit with all his might.

 

“I, I’ve gotta try, though,” Sniper replied a bit weakly.

 

It felt like only a second had passed, but then Spy felt a hand slapping his cheek lightly.

 

“Spy. Can you hear me?” Medic barked urgently. Spy couldn’t open his eyes.

 

“Doctor,” Spy replied weakly, voice a wheeze.

 

“Yes. It is me. You only need to stand for a moment, to get on the teleporter. Can you do that?”

 

“You can’t speak French,” Spy replied, very confused as to how Medic could understand him.

 

“Hmm.” Medic’s voice retreated, presumably as he turned away. “Scout. I need you run back to base to turn on the teleporter on that side. Can you do that?”

 

The sound of sneakers on concrete disappearing into the distance was the only answer.

 

“Spy. Are you still awake?”

 

“Oui,” Spy replied. He tried to blink his eyes open, but when he did, he couldn’t see very well. His eyes were watering.

 

“I am going to need to perform surgery on you. Are you okay with that?”

 

Spy was dimly aware of some of the fluid clearing from his lungs, and a pang of fear hit even as breathing ever-so-slightly eased. “Medigun?” he asked weakly.

 

“If I do not use the Medigun, you will instantly begin to suffocate. I need to keep you alive long enough to operate,” Medic said patiently.

 

Spy processed that words were said, and he understood what the words were, but collectively they made no sense. He tried to speak a few times, and was satisfied by the feeling of his own mumbling, but he was fairly certain that he wasn’t speaking words.

 

“The teleporter’s all upgraded,” Engie said somewhere.

 

“Laborer,” Spy said.

 

“...Yes?” Engie asked.

 

Spy said nothing.

 

“He’s operating on very little oxygen, so he will not be making sense for some time,” Medic said, almost apologetically. “Now we just wait to—“

 

The teleporter whirred to life.

 

“ _God_ , but the kid’s damn fast,” Engie said, whistling lowly.

 

“Now it’s your turn to accomplish an incredible physical feat,” Medic said, helping heft Spy to his feet. “Just a few seconds of standing. That’s all we need.”

 

“I can’t,” Spy wheezed, entire world spinning around him.

 

“You will,” Medic said sternly.

 

He did.

 

He stumbled and nearly ate concrete the moment he fell through the other side of the teleporter, but he was just barely caught.

 

“Woah—! Fuck, okay,” Scout said, nearly as out of breath as Spy was. “Would love some warning next time. You alive?”

 

Spy murmured something.

 

“Close enough.” Another whirring noise. “Doc, a little help?”

 

“I need to go prepare for an emergency surgery. Engineer will be through shortly to help, I imagine.”

 

Spy was absolutely certain that something else was said after that. Unfortunately, he missed it, because that is the moment that he fell unconscious.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spy awoke on a table in the medical bay.

 

That wasn’t unusual. Medic did occasional surgeries on the team, when replacing Ubër valves or organs failing due to the biological Armageddon that was dying on a daily basis—the subconscious stress alone would occasionally trick the body into thinking it was dead.

 

But this time, Spy didn’t remember lying down in the first place, which was just a little bit stressful.

 

He opened his eyes, and processed that at least he was breathing easier. In fact, his lungs felt clearer than they’d been... well, possibly ever. And his mind was clear, and his throat was only somewhat raw.

 

He glanced around. Medic was asleep in a chair not far away, elbow leaned against another gurney. He jolted awake when Spy hesitantly moved to sit up.

 

“Ah! You’re awake!” he chimed, looking tired. “How do you feel?”

 

“Alive,” Spy said hesitantly. He pressed a hand to his chest, where he could feel a slight ache. “What did you do?”

 

“Traded out your lungs for less destroyed ones,” Medic said, trying for cheerful. “It was... taxing. I needed to do it the old-fashioned way to prevent the illness cells from trading over.”

 

Spy cast his gaze around the room, and his eyes widened slightly when they landed on Scout, who was passed out in a cot across the room. “What happened to him?” he asked, letting concern shine through his voice.

 

Medic looked over, but didn’t seem concerned. “Oh. He’s simply recovering from losing blood,” Medic said offhandedly.

 

Spy looked no less concerned.

 

Medic sighed dramatically at the concept of needing to explain himself. “To give you new lungs, I also needed to give you a blood transfusion. Unfortunately, you are blood type O-positive. That means you are practically a universal donor, but unfortunately cannot accept blood unless it is also type O. Only one other person is type O on the team, by some strange coincidence.”

 

Spy glanced over at Scout, who’d stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.

 

“He is O-negative, which makes him a universal donor. But I have never been able to convince him to donate blood before. He dislikes needles.”

 

“How did you convince him?” Spy asked, eyebrows rising.

 

“I did not need to. He had pneumonia once as a child, is aware of how painful it is. He volunteered immediately when he heard me talking about surgery to help you.”

 

Spy looked down at his chest. The stitches looked fresh.

 

“That’s... surprising,” Spy said hesitantly.

 

“Not really. He is always kind to those he cares about,” Medic replied simply.

 

Spy said nothing for a few moments. Then suddenly, his head jerked up. “Wait, what of the battle?” he asked abruptly.

 

“Ah,” Medic said with a wince. “Yes. That.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Spy showed up in the conference area to stand before the monitor, the Administrator was absolutely livid.

 

“—most _completely_  unprofessional course of action I could have _possibly_  imagined in the most _ludicrous_ of fever dreams,” she ranted to the room, all of whom had long since cowered to some extent. “I don’t know how on earth you believed you could act in a way so unacceptable—“

 

“The team all collectively hurried to base when they heard what happened,” Medic said quietly to Spy, cringing.

 

“Why?!” Spy whisper-shouted in return.

 

Medic shrugged, instead squaring his shoulders and walking forward into the camera’s view.

 

“—ought to be punished for such insubordination— _oh, would you look who finally decided to make an appearance, the first on the team to desert_ ,” Administrator said, voice dripping with venom. There was a tremor to Medic’s hands where they clasped behind his back, but nothing else to betray his fear.

 

“Yes, hello, madam,” Medic said politely, voice just a bit too stiff. “I only now finished conducting an emergency operation. Otherwise, I would have come sooner.”

 

“An emergency operation?” she asked, sneering sharply enough to send prickles across Spy’s skin.

 

“Yes. A member of our team contracted a severe case of pneumonia, and needed to either receive replacement lungs, or to die repeatedly,” Medic said crisply, clinically.

 

“Is that so?” Administrator asked.

 

“Ja,” Medic said, his bravery unmatched in the room.

 

The next round of berating was aimed squarely at him, and his eyes fell closed against the onslaught, unresisting to the verbal abuse.

 

Spy crept forward, adjusting his hastily-donned uniform with jerky motions, and a few eyes flickered to him in terror before he stepped into frame.

 

“If I may interrupt?” he said, the epitome of smoothness.

 

The Administrator cut herself off, instead glaring coldly at him and waiting for whatever he would say next.

 

“I am the one who contracted pneumonia,” he said evenly, simply. “And I am the reason the team left the battlefield today. For that reason, any and all punishment should fall on me.”

 

“Except I’m the one who gave him munonia!” Soldier cut in loudly.

 

Silence in the room. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“And it was out of, out of _horrible guilt_  for such a transgression that caused me to... to lead the charge from the battlefield to ensure his safety!” Soldier blustered, voice loud and proud.

 

“You are the one responsible,” the Administrator repeated, tone and expression darkening.

 

“Yes, ma’am!” Soldier said confidently.

 

“...If the rest of you gentlemen would please vacate the room,” the Administrator said politely, “I have a few words to exchange with Mr. Doe.”

 

The mercs did as requested, and the door shut. Even through the soundproofing, they could tell that she hadn’t been speaking at even half her maximum volume before.

 

Roughly ten minutes passed, and then Soldier opened the door, grinning widely. “Boys, I think she bought it!” he said proudly.

 

“How did you survive her shoutin’ that loud without your ears exploding?” Demo asked, half-laughing.

 

“What?” Soldier asked, then paused, and reached up towards his ear. “Ah, I turned off my hearing aid. What did you say?”

 

“Why in god’s name did you take the fall for him, mate?” Sniper asked, awed.

 

“Have none of you ever so much as _blown your nose_  in a history textbook, or are you forgetting the story of Spartacus?” Soldier asked, taking on a tone that suggested he was about to start a lecture.

 

“Who’s Spartacus?” came a voice from down the hall, and Scout was walking to join the group, clearly freshly woken.

 

“A better question,” Spy cut in before Soldier could start lecturing. “Why on earth have all of you insisted on helping me so much this past week?”

 

“Uh, because you’re constantly being annoyingly helpful to us, too?” Scout said, rubbing his eyes idly.

 

Spy bristled. “No I’m not,” he said quickly. There was chuckling from the group, knowing looks, eye rolls. That only made him bristle further. “I’m _not_ ,” he insisted.

 

“Sure you aren’t,” Engie said condescendingly. “An’ Demo’s decided to quit drinking.”

 

“Not on your life, lad,” Demo said darkly, pointing at him.

 

“Well, outside of alledgedly helping you, a charge which _cannot be proven_ ,” Spy said, glancing around at them pointedly, “I still do not understand why you all would help me.”

 

Pyro murmured something then, and Engie nodded. “Because you’re our friend,” he agreed.

 

“Spy is credit to team,” Heavy said solemnly.

 

“You are an important member of this group, private!” Soldier barked. “And we will not be divided, not even by numbonus!”

 

“Why did you _think_  we were doing this, dumbass?” Scout asked, rolling his eyes.

 

“Jus’... same reason you help us lot,” Sniper shrugged. “That’s all.”

 

Spy looked between his teammates, and would deny until the day he died whether his eyes stung.

 

“Well, I’m feeling better now,” he said, throat tight with _the remaining traces of the life-threatening pneumonia, not emotion_. “So I would appreciate if you would refrain from any more sentimental nonsense.”

 

“Not on your life,” Demo replied, slugging him on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be a display of affection but just ended up sort of hurting.

 

“Actually,” Medic cut in, “I’m going to need any of you who have had contact with Herr Spy in the past twenty-four hours to report to the medical bay. We do not want anyone else getting sick, ja? Except for Herr Scout. He _definitely_  has it already.”

 

“...Aw, shit.”

 

 

 

** ~END~ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[tumblr is thetriggeredhappy and this entire fucking concept belongs to Gee thank you and good NIGHT]]


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